


Red Right Hand

by Khirsah



Series: Sympathy for the Devil [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aggressive Hawke, Anders is a BAMF, Hawke is a BAMF, M/M, Minor Canon Divergence at Deep Roads, The Deep Roads, Warden Bethany Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aggressive Warrior Hawke is a hard man to say no to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a prequel to The Man Comes Around, showing how Anders and aggressive!male!warrior!Hawke got together. This story does not contain noncon or dubcon, but the sex may get rather rough (Hawke likes tossing Anders around; Anders loves being tossed around).

“He'll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you've been a good boy.  
He'll rekindle all the dreams it took you a lifetime to destroy.  
He'll reach deep into the hole, heal your shrinking soul,  
But there won’t be a single thing that you can do.  
He's a god, he's a man,  
he's a ghost, he's a guru.  
They're whispering his name through this disappearing land,  
But hidden in his coat is a red right hand.”  
— **Red Right Hand** , Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

**

“Just,” Anders gasped, palms gliding slickly over tense shoulders. “Just, just a minute more. I just—”

He was drenched in sweat. A bead of it rolled down his brow and across the bridge of his nose. His muscles ached, and the hot thrum of arousal was almost loud enough to drown out the roar of protest knocking about his skull.

He just. Needed. A little. _More_. And then he’d be able to push past the flare of blue-white noise in his head and, Maker take him, _come_. All he wanted was to _come_.

“I, fuck, I just.” He felt the high whine in the back of his throat, trapped there as clever fingers wrapped around his cock and squeezed. The touch made him buck forward with a shout. His legs shook, dangerously close to giving out as Anders thrust into the tight grip. His fingers snarled in silky hair. A scalding hot breath gusting over his hipbone made him keen.

“That’s it,” the elf murmured, tongue darting out to slick up the underside of Anders’ cock, pausing to swirl elaborate patterns against the head. He teased the tip of his tongue into the slit, grip shifting to expertly change the rhythm of his strokes. It was, bar none, the best, most _perfect_ blowjob of Anders’ life. And it was a fight to the death just to enjoy it. “Let go, honey. I’ve got you.”

Anders closed his eyes, biting down on his lower lip as he bucked toward that _incredible_ mouth, straining for the edge. “Now, please, I need— Hurry,” he gasped, strung so impossibly tight he thought he may snap in two. He needed this so badly it was a physical ache. His hand wasn’t enough to send him over the falls. An indiscreet hookup in a tavern wasn’t enough. _This_ , this very skilled, very expensive mouth was his _last chance_.

And he could already tell it wasn’t going to be enough.

“Maker take you,” Anders moaned, rocking forward. The elf hummed in approval, throat going liquid-smooth around him as Anders thrust deeper. He was surrounded base to tip in slick heat, graceful fingers sliding around to cup his ass, and all he could see behind his lids was incandescent light and the tangible sense of affronted dignity as Justice trembled in annoyance—then _pushed_.

It wasn’t like being possessed—Anders was still aware of himself, from his sweat-slicked brow to his rapidly softening cock—but it was close. It was too Maker-damned close, and there was no way he’d be able to fight past the sensation of the spirit washing through his limbs to find his desperately needed orgasm.

Justice, it turned out, was a void-taken prude.

“I’m never going to come again,” Anders said with a weak gasp as Jethann pulled back. He blinked open his eyes, half afraid to find cracks along his skin—but no, it was still wholly his body. He just wasn’t allowed to be in full control of it.

The expensive prostitute just smiled softly as he let Anders’ cock slip from his mouth. He gave the base a friendly squeeze, then stood, palms sliding over tight muscles as he pressed close. “It’s nothing, sweet thing,” he murmured, kissing Anders’ chin. “It happens to a great number of—”

Anders made a strangled noise that was half laugh, half moan, and gently pulled away. “I, yes, well. Thank you for _that_ ,” he said. He dragged his fingers through his messy blond hair. He was trembling all over, Justice hovering heavy in the front of his mind like a disapproving chaperone. He was _waiting_ , Anders thought grimly, to make sure his host didn’t start up any of that rutting nonsense again.

 _A man can die of blue balls, you know,_ he thought, tying back his hair with shaking hands. _I’m sure I read that somewhere._

The spirit did not deign to answer.

“We’ll try again,” the elf offered, moving to sprawl across the bed in a blatantly welcoming manner. He was hard—at least Anders had been able to do that for him—and lean and hairless and beautiful. If anything was going to be able to push through Justice’s resistance and let him _dear Maker finally_ orgasm, it would have been him. “Once you’ve had a chance to rest and regroup. It isn’t the end of the world, you know.”

Anders grabbed his shabby robes and shook them out. A few stray feathers drifted dejectedly to the floor. “It may not be the end of the world,” he said, beginning to dress. “But I’m pretty sure it’s the end of Anders the playboy. I’m sorry this was so, ah. Well, you understand. I could take care of you, if you wanted?”

He glanced up, trying not to wince against the sudden warning flare of pain at his temples. Anders set his teeth and sent a healing thread toward the sharp throb, soothing the headache.

Jethann lounged amongst the pillows and studied his nails. “That isn’t necessary.” 

_Of course_ , Anders thought. _Because why in the void would he want your hands on him? You haven’t exactly shown yourself in a very good light. Maker, what he must think of me_. “No, of course,” he said. He fumbled for the coinpurse at his waist, fighting a mortified blush.

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.”

This, he was fairly sure, was what it felt like to die from shame. He couldn’t bring himself to look up to see the _pity_ in the whore’s eyes. “No. That is, I should pay for your, ah, services.”

“Mm, but there wasn’t much _servicing_ done. It was only the work of a moment.” Anders manfully hid a wince. “Besides, you look like you could use the coin more than me.”

“Just— Just take it, all right?” He set the coins on the bedside table, not letting himself glance over at the pale, naked limbs spread invitingly over the bedsheets. He still _wanted_ Jethann. His body was stirring again, blood thrumming through him, cock beginning to twitch and harden and— And this was just a useless tease. Justice wasn’t going to let him _do_ anything about his excitement. Even when he dragged himself back to his little cot in the clinic and tried very hard not to think of what a crushingly mortifying day this had been, tried very hard to not think about the elf kneeling in front of him all eager moans and talented mouth and _no discernible gag reflex_ , Justice wouldn’t let him do anything.

If he’d known taking his friend into his mind would mean never finding any sort of release _ever again_ , he would probably have run screaming into the night.

“Right,” Anders said, rubbing his palms against his thighs, trying to turn his mind away from the prickle of desire and despair coiling about the base of his spine. “I’ll, ah, probably not be seeing you around.”

“Take care of yourself, sweet thing,” the elf purred.

Anders practically fled from the room, purse a good deal lighter and heart as heavy as he could remember it ever being. He kept his head ducked as he rushed down the steps and crossed the main floor. The Blooming Rose was beginning to pick up as the evening wore on, prostitutes moving amongst tables or sitting on potential clients’ laps. Someone was playing the lute, her sultry voice winding through the air. A soft, breathy laugh echoed from somewhere toward his left.

It seemed surreal that this was exactly the sort of place he used to flee _to_ , back when he was young and stupid and alone inside his head. Now he felt old and haunted as he hurried his pace, wanting to put as much distance between him and the hollow mockery of _things that really aren’t ever going to happen, sod it all_ , as quickly as possible.

 _I’m not dead_ , he thought, clenching his fists. The heavy weight of Justice entangled in his thoughts never felt like so much of an imposition as it did now. _I’m not a shell. You can’t treat me as if I shouldn’t have a say in my own life_.

On his way out the main door, Anders knocked shoulders with someone just slipping inside. “Watch yourself,” he snarled, in no mood to be friendly. He took one step…then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry,” he added in a gentler voice, turning to look at the young woman he’d nearly bowled over. She was pretty—very pretty—with soft round cheeks and warm eyes and dark hair that fell in waves about her face. She had a full mouth that was just now curving out of its frown, and a gorgeous pair of—

Anders pulled his gaze up.

“I beg your pardon, Serah,” he said formally, aware of the thrum of lust that hadn’t gotten a chance to be slackened. She’d caught him looking, of course, but luckily for him, the girl didn’t seem angry about it. That was one blessing for this sorry mess of a day. “I was not looking where I was going. Though how anyone could miss you, I couldn’t say,” Anders added with the ghost of his old flirtatious smile. It never hurt to be chivalrous.

When she smiled, she was even prettier than before. Beautiful, he’d venture, when she’d had time to grow into it. “Oh, that’s all right,” the girl said, and her accent made him think sharply, longingly of Ferelden. “Going into the Rose on a daring adventure, you rather expect being knocked about a bit. It’ll add something to the telling, at least.”

Anders knew he should have murmured some polite response and kept going—headed back to the clinic and gotten a few hours of work in—but something about the girl had caught his interest. Maybe it was the Ferelden accent. Maybe it was the cheerful, almost coy curve of her mouth. _Maybe_ , he thought darkly, _I’m just getting that void-taken lonely and pathetic_.

Whatever it was, he turned toward her, inching subtly into the orbit of her obvious charm. “You’re on an…adventure?” he wondered. “Here?”

The girl’s lips twitched. “As close as I’m likely to get with Big Brother calling all the shots. _He’s_ off somewhere looting corpses or fighting to the death or exploring cursed caves on the coast. I,” she pressed a delicate hand over her impressive cleavage, “have been given the grand and dangerous task of tracking down my useless uncle.”

“Difficult work, tracking useless uncles,” Anders offered. “One never knows what dangers one may face or what villains one may bump into on the way through the door.”

“Oh, I like you.” She put her hands on her hips and looked him up and down. “Hm. I think I’d like you more if you joined me on my quest, Serah—and perhaps helped me charm drinks from the Madame? I’ve never _actually_ been inside a real whorehouse. Not on my own. I plan on enjoying it!”

Well. This strange girl was a kindred spirit if Anders had ever met one. He slowly began to smile, mood lifting. “I shouldn’t,” he said.

She cocked her head. “Usually I let that stop me too. But not today. Today I’ve decided I’m going to do _everything_ I shouldn’t. Enjoy a brothel, meet a dashing stranger, actually _live_ a little without having to watch everything I say or do.”

Maker, that sounded familiar. “Is your brother truly that strict?” Anders wondered.

“You have no idea.”

He considered her for a minute longer, hesitating between her and the still-open doorway. Out there, he knew exactly what was waiting for him. Darktown. The clinic. A cramped hand from hours spent writing about the mage freedom he still didn’t know how to bring about. A lonely cot. 

Here, there was…the promise of something else. The promise of a brighter time, if only for a little while.

And well, why not? Jethann was unlikely to come downstairs, and spending time with a charming stranger was better than going back to brood in his clinic. He ignored Justice’s grumble that they were wasting time and offered her his arm, letting the door swing shut. “It would be an honor to accompany you on so grand and dangerous a voyage, Mistress…?”

He let the word hang there.

“Oh,” the girl said, waving a hand airily even as she took his elbow…and pressed closer than expected, the tempting swell of her breast against his arm. “I don’t think names are strictly necessary, do you?”

Forget kindred spirits. If Anders had met this girl years ago, he would have sworn they were soul twins. “You know, I like how you think,” he said.

Somehow, with the Ferelden on his arm, Anders wasn’t embarrassed to go back into the Rose. They moved into the main room side-by-side, and he couldn’t help but find himself charmed by the way her eyes darted about eagerly. He remembered what it was like to be sheltered and unfamiliar with the larger world—though of course, in his case, it had been entirely against his will. And Maker, but it felt good to be close to such a pretty girl, to have her smiles and attention as if he were an ordinary man. Justice rumbled warningly, but Anders shoved the dull prickling in his mind aside.

 _Hush_ , he thought, _I’m adventuring_.

As it turned out, the girl’s uncle wasn’t at the Rose. Even more surprising, it didn’t take much wheedling to get two glasses and a free bottle of good wine. “Here you go, little Hawke,” the serving girl said, flashing both of them a generous swell of bared breast as she set the tray between them. “On the house. Say hello to your brother now, won’t you?” She flashed a quick grin, twining a long strand of fire-red hair between her fingers. “And tell him— Bother, I can never think of anything good. Come up with something you think he’d like and tell him that for me, would you?”

“Little Hawke?” Anders mused when the girl sashayed away.

The girl—Little Hawke—blushed and reached out to snag the wine, pouring them each a generous glassful. “So much for anonymity,” she said dryly. “But I won’t tell you my first name, so don’t bother asking.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Anders promised. He reached for his glass and took a sip, hiding his wince at the sudden flare of pressure in his skull. It really was his luck to have fallen in with a teetotalling, anti-sex, completely straight-laced spirit. “So. Your brother?”

She reached out and put a hand over his. “I’m about to make a move on a complete stranger in a brothel,” Little Hawke said. “Believe me when I tell you that I _really_ don’t want to talk about Garrett right now.”

“Well,” he said. Anders blinked at her owlishly, feeling himself pink around the edges. “That is unexpectedly blunt.”

The girl shrugged a shoulder and took a deep swallow of her wine. He could see the way color crept up her cheeks. Her dark eyes dipped, lashes flickering. Anders could almost swear he heard her pulse hammering in her throat, delicate and rapid as a bird’s wing. She was young, he mused, forcing past Justice’s objections to take another swallow of wine. Too young for him (and Maker take it, he hated feeling old, but there it was). Too…soft. Sweet. He could tell she was sweet just from fifteen minutes of conversation.

And as headstrong in her desire to soak in life as he had ever been.

“You’re a lot like I used to be,” Anders said impulsively, feeling that strange connection again. That weird mirror distortion of the boy he’d used to be looking back at him in her pretty, flushed, earnest face. She was gentler than he had ever been, but the wild headlong rush into the void was there. The devil may care straining toward excitement and life and color. _He_ would have propositioned a complete stranger too. He had, actually, many a time. Back _before_. “When I was, ah.”

Her lips quirked as she set her (mostly empty) glass aside. The flush was still there, but she could meet his eyes again. “Thank you, grandfather,” Little Hawke said, pushing back her chair. She skirted the table to slide into his lap, all rounded limbs and sweet weight and soft skin. She smelled like Lowtown, and dog, and leather, and the wine. But there was something more there, too. Something almost like violets and cream. “Now, if you’re done reminiscing about your wild youth, there’s another quest I’ve decided to accept.”

“Well,” Anders said, one hand carefully bracing her waist. He shoved Justice away as hard as he could, determined to embrace the moment for as long as he could manage. To live in the memory of the person he used to be, if only for a little while. “I do so love quests.”

When he’d started his day, aching from an erotic dream and unable to take himself in hand all the way to completion, he hadn’t expected any of this. A morning spent fuming helplessly against the mess he’d made of his life, an afternoon spent healing and making other lives better, an evening spent desperately rutting with Jethann…and then later, arms full of a sweet, young, urgently headstrong girl, making out in a corner of a brothel. She’d moved to straddle his lap somewhere along the way, thighs gripping his hips. His hands slid up and down the generous curves of her, pulling her against the too-eager strain of his cock as he sucked at her tongue.

She was all awkward desperation and defiance, clearly unskilled. Anders caught her hair in one hand when their teeth clicked together and tilted his head, _showing_ her how to kiss. Showing her how to make it good. Still, despite her lack of finesse, Little Hawke was _clearly_ very eager, and Anders was consumed trying to keep her from wriggling right off his lap _and_ keeping Justice from exploding in a fit of rage…which is why he didn’t notice the shadow being cast over them until it was far, far too late.

“Hawke!” one of the girls cried.

“Maker’s balls, Hawke, not _inside_!”

Anders lifted his head with a breathless gasp, confused when Little Hawke suddenly jerked back. He reached out to grab for her, but his hands caught empty air. The eager young woman had been bodily lifted off him by a…

Holy _fuck_ that was a monster of a man.

Anders looked up and up and up, eyes going wide. The man— _this must be Big Brother_ , an unhelpful part of him whispered—had Little Hawke by the waist and was carefully setting her aside, out of harm’s way. Which meant Anders was directly _in_ harm’s way, was probably the eye of that whole fucking storm, and he really should be making a break for it _immediately_.

He scrambled up, both hands lifted in a placating gesture, heart beating a mad staccato in his chest. Big Hawke was massive in a way he’d thought only Qunari could manage—tall and _broad_ in dark armor that had seen better days. There was _caked blood_ on his gauntlets. Longish black hair had been tied back from what looked, in profile, to be a remarkably handsome, if _completely terrifying_ , face.

And then Hawke looked at him with eerily blue eyes and Anders felt all at once like a caged bird frantically beating its wings as it fought to avoid the sweeping claw of a _very_ angry cat.

The huge warrior took a step forward, menacing. “You,” he began in a deep, rich baritone.

Little Hawke threw herself forward, wrapping delicate hands around her brother’s armored arm. “ _Wait_ ,” she said, “Big Brother, _no_. You’ll make a scene.”

Hawke swatted her hands away as he grabbed for Anders. Anders ducked back, fumbling out of range and desperately wishing he’d brought his staff along. He was fairly sure he’d be quicker than Big Hawke—that much armor couldn’t have been easy to run in—but a fireball or two would have helped.

_Or three. Or twelve dozen. Maker take me. I should never have left the clinic._

And he _hated_ how smugly Justice agreed to _that_.

“Wait,” Anders tried to say, edging around so he had a clearer shot at the door. “Wait, you don’t understand.”

“I understand enough.”

The hairs on his arms stood up at the growl in the warrior’s voice. There was electricity in it as strong as if the man had been a mage himself. Big Hawke moved forward again, drifts of old blood flaking away to the floor as he flexed his gauntlets, and Anders felt a strange thrill of terror that was almost…erotic in its intensity.

Then Little Hawke was tumbling between them, pressed against the massive warrior’s chest as if she could bodily hold him back. “ _Wait_ ,” she hissed desperately. “You can’t make a scene here, Garrett—there are _Templars here_.”

Anders fought the instinct to swing around to look. The girl had twisted up her face to peer up into her brother’s, expression beseeching. She looked so small and delicate in his shadow, like a fledgling pressed against the strong side of a, well…a hawk. Anders watched, heart pounding, as the warrior’s expression slowly began to soften. He dropped his hands to her shoulders and squeezed with an affection that was almost endearing to see, his strong slash of a mouth gentling into a quirking smile.

“Liar,” he said, giving her a small shake. “But I’ll cede your point.”

Then he looked up and Anders felt the full force of those lyrium-bright eyes pinning him in place. “As for you,” Hawke said, voice a low, rumbling growl. “ _Run_.”

Anders turned without question and did as he was told.


	2. Chapter 2

Several long days of not-hiding in his clinic, focusing on healing refugees and hammering out the final arrangements for his mage underground helped to put the whole messy, embarrassing encounter in perspective.

 _Perhaps Justice was right_ , Anders mused as he scratched out the final lines of his letter. _I should have remained focused on the real reason I’m in Kirkwall. I’ll do better from now on_.

It was late. He’d long since blown out the light above the clinic door and the last of his patients had shuffled off to their own poor and dingy hovels. A single candle guttered by his elbow, casting an unsteady glow over the worn wooden table with its piles of crumpled paper. His fingers ached from writing, and there was a crick in his neck that even _his_ healing couldn’t quite sort out.

But he was done, at last.

Anders set aside his quill and stretched his fingers, scanning the pure gibberish scratched across the page. The letter had gone through six painstaking drafts as he worked layer by layer to strip any obvious meaning from the words, leaving only vague intent hidden in a series of codes. When Karl had taught Anders the cypher years ago, he’d thought the older man barking mad. He couldn’t see the point in all that effort. If he wanted to talk to Karl, all he had to do was sneak into his room or drag him into a likely wardrobe. If he wanted to send coded messages to other mages in other Circles, he would… Oh, right, he would _never need to do that_. Everything Anders had known, would ever know, was defined by the walls of the Circle and the rule of the Templars. Karl’s cyphers were part of a shadowy revolution he had no interest in being a part of.

It was strange, he mused, how life had a way of making fools of the young.

Anders snagged the balled-up, discarded drafts and dropped them onto the hard-packed dirt floor. He called up a spark, focusing on keeping it contained in his palm before letting it flow down his fingers in a wave of liquid light to catch on a curl of paper. The spark became a flame, and Anders watched as it spread, feeling its heat against his skin. One of the early drafts had partially unfurled, and he could just make out the first few words as it, too, caught fire.

 _Karl_ , it said in Anders’ scrawling script. _It isn’t safe anymore. The Templars suspect. I’m coming for you_.

Anders turned back to his desk with a sigh. He capped the inkwell and lifted the finished, coded letter, absently smoothing out the edges before folding it down into a small, flat rectangle that could easily be hidden within the palm of a child’s hand. Anders tested the heft of it, watching with only half a mind as the fire slowly began to dim, then die out. Ash drifted across the floor, bits of coal-red still glowing like stars before guttering out. He stood, scuffing one foot into the pile of ash to spread it evenly across the dirt until there was no trace.

It never hurt to be careful.

Outside the weak circle of candlelight, the clinic was nearly as black as the Deep Roads. He picked his way through the darkness, tracing carefully around familiar shapes. The soft _whisk whisk_ of his robes brushing the makeshift beds was eerie in the heavy silence.

 _All right_ , Anders thought, reaching for the door. His fingers knocked blindly against splintered wood before sliding down to secure the knob. _I know I don’t usually welcome your intrusions as much as you think I should, but I could do with some chatter right now. So come on, then, Justice—chatter at me_.

The dry husk of Justice’s annoyance was the closest thing to company he could hope for tonight.

“I really should get a pet,” Anders muttered as he pulled open the door. Darktown was as black as its name suggested, but a sliver of moonlight filtered through on the far left, revealing rotting wooden steps and piles of waste. A rat scuttled past his foot, darting toward a far corner, and Anders heard a low rustle of cloth as a shape unfolded somewhere nearby.

“A whuzzat?” the boy murmured sleepily. Ferelden, by the sound of him. Lirene had taken to leaving guards by his door ever since word of the free clinic had really begun to spread. There were others, further out and further in, Anders knew. They wouldn’t do much good in a fight against Templars, but the warning would be enough. It had to be enough—it was all he had. “You want a what?”

Anders made a wry face. “Never mind,” he said. “Could I have you take this to Brekka? She’ll know what to do.” He reached out to slip the tightly folded letter into the boy’s hand, closing grubby fingers over it. “And please take care—it’s important that this reaches her safely.”

“Brekka. Right. Okay, then.”

The boy rubbed a knuckle against his eyes, yawning. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, hair a shock of pale curls over a dirt-streaked, freckled face. His cheeks had the hollowness of near-starvation, collarbone standing in stark relief just above the shredded collar of his too-thin shirt.

“Thank you,” Anders murmured, watching as the boy—barefoot, of course; the refugees couldn’t afford luxuries as simple as _blankets_ or _shoes_ —turned and trotted away. He felt the rumble of Justice inside of him, and for once, he didn’t resent the intrusion.

 _It isn’t fair_ , he agreed, fingers tightening about the doorknob. There were fine mansions on the streets above. Directly above where he was standing now, an ivy-covered estate likely held a family warm and content in their beds. _Those_ children would never know hunger, or pain, or fear. _It isn’t right. But we have other battles to fight, my friend_.

Anders pulled away, tugging the door shut behind him. He dragged his fingers through his hair as he made his way back toward the small oasis of candlelight, weaving carefully through the tables and beds and nearly empty stores of medical supplies. The ache at the base of his neck had spread to his shoulders; he felt so bloody _old_ as he leaned over his scarred desk and blew out the light.

The clinic was nearly suffocating in its stillness.

“A cat,” Anders said. He brushed past the tattered curtain blocking off his own private corner of the clinic—ten by ten feet, with its unsteady cot and a three-legged stool and a basin filled with cold, murky water. He didn’t bother to do more than tug off his boots and pull the strip of leather from his hair before climbing under the thin blankets. Anders settled in, moving onto his side with his knees curling up. He was so exhausted, not even the cold could keep him awake tonight. “That’s definitely what we need, Justice. A nice, warm _cat_.”

He closed his eyes with a smile at Justice’s low rumble of familiar disapproval. He was asleep in minutes.

**

The next morning brought its usual string of challenges. Volunteers began trickling in just past sunrise, most of them hardly any better off than the poor sods who were his patients. They were cheerful enough, however, chatting brightly as Anders lit the lantern above the clinic door and double-checked to make sure everything was in order.

The first patients began to push inside just moments after the door was thrown open to them.

“Here, Serah,” a limping girl said, reaching out to snag his sleeve as Anders ushered her toward a chair. She pushed a small wrapped bundle into his arms. “Mother says I was to give that to you. For looking at my leg.”

He arched his brows as he carefully unfolded the worn-but-clean cloth. The rich, heady scent of a freshly baked loaf made his mouth water. Embarrassingly enough, Anders’ stomach grumbled a moment later.

“That is incredibly kind,” he said, “but you needn’t bring me anything.”

“You’d be handsome if you ate more,” she protested. “Eat it. It’s the least we can do, for everything.”

 _You’d be handsome **if** ,_ Anders thought wryly. He folded up the loaf of bread and passed it to one of his volunteers. “Thank you,” he said, careful not to let his amusement show. “And please thank your mother for me. I’ll enjoy a good breakfast this morning, for certain.”

Of course, it was hours yet before he found the time to slip away from his patients and actually break his fast…and by then, volunteers and patients alike had helped themselves to the majority of his meal. It wasn’t that he begrudged the starving refugees a slice of bread, Anders thought as he leaned his hip against the rough post and nibbled around the edges. It was just that sometimes he wished he wasn’t so often begrudged the same.

 _This wasn’t exactly the life I’d always had in mind_ , Anders mused, wiping a few stray crumbs away with his thumb. His stomach was still growling—the little bit of bread remaining hadn’t been nearly enough—but that would pass. Once he was elbow-deep in healing, he wouldn’t even notice.

“Anders!”

He straightened at the sharp cry, turning toward the doorway. One of his newest and most dedicated volunteers was urgently leading a dark-haired man back toward a free bed. The man was hunched over a strange bundle of rags, and it wasn’t until he stumbled and jostled a skinny limb free that Anders realized he was carrying a young _boy_.

Anders hurried toward the small group, already calling up healing magic. It unfurled low in his belly, spilling up and up and out in a wave of blue-white energy as the man carefully laid his son across the bed.

The injuries were extensive. Filthy gashes cut across the young boy’s arms and skinny chest. They went deep, one sunk almost to the bone. Anders hissed in a low breath between his teeth, focusing on the worst of the cuts, knitting flesh together. His volunteer had gently pulled the father aside and was rolling back the boy’s tattered shirt. Another brought a basin of water and efficiently began to clean the cuts even as Anders healed them, picking out bits of dirt and grit before they could be trapped beneath newly whole skin.

Anders barely noticed. He sank deeper and deeper into the act of healing, glowing palms moving over the broken body. They boy’s leg was broken in three places. One hand had been crushed. There was a fracture at the base of his skull, subtle enough compared to the boy’s other, more obvious injuries that anyone with less skill may have missed it. Anders knit his brows together, focusing on bleeding energy into the small frame bit by bit. Time stretched into a meaningless blur of color and light. He could feel himself begin to bottom out—he’d spent all morning calling on his mana with barely enough time to let it replenish—but he bit his tongue against the raw scrape of it and pushed onward.

 _This_ , he thought. This was why he was here. It may not have been the life he’d pictured back when he’d had more passion than sense, but if it meant healing torn flesh and broken bone, if it meant reaching deep into a young boy and closing his fingers around the spark of his life as if to say _Not today_ to the Maker himself…

Well. It may have been cold and grubby and endlessly frustrating, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

 _Live_ , he thought, grimacing at the broken-glass feel of his mana reaching its limit. _Void take it, you are going to live_.

The surge of power made him clench his teeth, eyes squeezing shut; the boy cried out at the same moment and arched off the cot. Anders could feel the last pieces snapping into place like tumblers falling in a lock, and he let go of his spell with a relieved noise, hands dropping to his sides. The boy’s father pressed in as the boy blinked open his eyes, and the look of gratitude the man shot Anders was almost enough to keep him upright.

Almost.

“Oof,” he breathed, turning away. He stumbled on leaden feet, reaching out to catch himself against a nearby pillar where he rested his staff when it wasn’t in use. There was a strong hand on his shoulder, squeezing briefly and then gone before he could mumble something appropriate in response to the quiet thanks.

Healing was its own reward most of the time, but Maker’s furry asscrack, it would have been nice if some of these harder cases came with a free bottle of lyrium.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, pulling in deep, steadying breaths. The clinic had been nearly empty when he’d pulled aside to break his fast, and with the man and his newly healed son gone, it was back down to Anders, two of his volunteers, and a woman who needed a place to sleep more than she needed the attentions of a healer. The clinic was quieter than usual, almost serene…which was what made the unexpected clank of armor _so very loud_.

Anders squeezed his eyes shut against a sudden lurch of fear and anger. The Templars. Who else could it be? Brekka had been captured slipping his note to Karl, or Karl had been caught sending a reply. Or perhaps word had finally reached the Gallows that there was an apostate healing the sick and miserable of Darktown. What did it matter? There would be no Chantry meeting to smuggle his friend to freedom, there would be no mage underground…and the Templars had come to drag him away.

Well. They could bloody well _try_.

He felt the surge of blue-white fury heat his blood as Justice pushed through his control, spilling out of him in fissures of pulsing energy. Anders grabbed for his staff, testing its weight and heft against his palm as he whirled around, one arm outflung. There was fire in his blood; he would cook them in their armor before he let them take him again.

“I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation,” Anders snarled. “Why do you—”

The words fumbled at his tongue, strangling in his throat as he stared at the strange foursome moving warily into his clinic. A beardless dwarf was reaching back for a mechanized crossbow, blond brows lifted in silent surprise. A guardswoman with fiery red hair and a determined jut to her chin already had her sword in hand, shield slipping effortlessly into place. She, Anders could tell, was not someone he wanted to cross.

But it was the girl standing just a little to the left of the others who caught Anders’ eye. Soft-faced and warm-eyed with wavy dark hair and a staff as elaborate as his own strapped to her back. And next to her, towering above his companions with a sword nearly as tall and impressive and, frankly, mortally terrifying as he was—

“Void take me,” Anders muttered. “ _Hawke_?”

“ _You_ ,” Hawke growled.

“Oh!” Little Hawke added, one hand jerking up to cover her mouth.

The dwarf cocked his head, leaving the crossbow in its harness as he looked between them. “I’m sensing a story here,” he said. “What do you think, Aveline? Are you sensing a story here, too?”

“I’m sensing trouble,” the guardswoman—Aveline—retorted. _She_ didn’t put away her weapon.

Anders edged back, gaze darting between Hawke and his sister. “I don’t want any trouble,” he began. “This is all— This is all very—” Maker take him, it had just been a kiss! He’d done much worse with far less provocation before. “You _tracked me down_?”

Hawke’s jaw set, a muscle twitching at the corner. He was as big and as broad and as darkly handsome as Anders remembered. Longish black hair had been pulled back from a starkly attractive face. Blue eyes practically burned through him when Anders finally worked up the courage to meet the other man’s gaze. He was likely younger than Anders by a few years, but he was no _youth_ like his sister. And, Maker, the way he moved, advancing slowly but steadily on Anders with the weight of intent behind each step, as implacable and unreadable as a Qunari…

Anders’ legs began to tremble. His heart fluttered alarmingly in his chest.

“ _You_ are the Grey Warden?” Hawke demanded. His voice was…just unfairly attractive. Frightening, too, in equal measure. He stopped several paces away, giving Anders the illusion of safety.

Anders slowly lowered his staff, pressing the butt against the hard-packed earth. He kept his hands curled around it, leaning forward so it could take some of his weight. He was half afraid his legs would give out. This was…an unexpected turn in events. “The Warden-Commander sent you?” He brushed his hand over his eyes, fighting the wave of lightheadedness that sometimes came on the heels of such a strong consumption of mana. One of his volunteers was hovering at the corner of his vision, nervously looking between Hawke and the armored guardswoman as she edged back toward the back of the room, where they kept an emergency exit. She’d go get help, Anders knew. Just in case. “No, wait, of course she did. Bloody-minded woman always did prefer swords over sense.”

The warning noise made the hairs on Anders’ arms stand up. He fought the shiver that followed, biting the inside of his mouth as he ticked his eyes toward Hawke’s face, then away. He didn’t sense the taint in the man, but then, the Warden-Commander would have thought of that. The sister, he admitted, had been a nice touch. Well, no, both of them were pretty close to perfect, if this was, indeed, a Warden’s trap—each his type in their own way. Maker, was he so predictable?

“Are you even related? No, don’t tell me. Just… Look, I’m not keen to go back to the Wardens. Bastards made me get rid of my cat.” He was babbling, Anders knew, but Hawke’s steady, silent appraisal was making him nervous, and he talked when he was nervous. Little Hawke slowly moved to join them, soft-featured face a mask of surprise and confusion. Either she was a very good actress or there was more to this than Warden-hunters come to drag him kicking and screaming back to the Deep Roads. He glanced up at Hawke again, half hoping he’d step in and _say_ something and half…really very glad he wasn’t shouting, or throwing Anders up against walls, or whatever other filthy things Anders’ mind insisted on dredging up.

This was, Anders mused, a very poor time for him to lose the last shreds of his sanity, but Maker, the man was attractive. In a big, brutish sort of way.

“Your…cat?” Little Hawke ventured.

“Right. Poor Ser Pounce-a-Lot. He hated the Deep Roads.”

“Enough,” Hawke cut in, and both Anders and Bethany immediately went silent. There was a part of Anders that resented his unconscious, instantaneous obedience, and he clenched his jaw against the old kneejerk desire to mouth off. _Remember how well that typically went for you_ , he thought grimly. Hawke’s eyes were locked on his face. It was as if he could see right through him. “I want to know about the Deep Roads.”

That sounded…promising. A Warden-hunter wouldn’t need that information. Maybe he wouldn’t be dragged back to Amaranthine after all. “What about them?” Anders hedged.

“I need to know how to get into the Deep Roads.” Hawke took another step forward, deliberately pushing into Anders’ personal space. Anders fell back, sweaty palms slipping down the length of his staff as he moved it between them—as if that in itself would be enough to keep him safe. “You can tell me willingly or not,” Hawke murmured. He was close enough that Anders could feel his heat, could smell metal and leather and blood.

“ _Garrett_ ,” Little Hawke protested. 

Anders could have sworn his heart was going to pound out of his chest. Hawke was _towering_ over him, an impossible presence. He drew in a ragged breath, shocked by the coil of heat unfurling low in his belly. What was _wrong_ with him? “Don’t threaten me, boy,” he said, voice far too husky. Void take him. “You can’t imagine what I’ve come through to get here. I’m not interested—”

 _Liar_. 

Anders wet his lips nervously. The guardswoman had put away her shield and sword with a snort. The dwarf looked positively gleeful. _I’m glad you’re enjoying the show_ , Anders thought bitterly. Maker’s breath but it was hard to think with Hawke standing so near. 

“You’ll tell me what I want to know,” Hawke murmured. The threat was shockingly intimate. Low and wickedly soft. Anders shifted back, trying to edge away from the heat cast by the big warrior’s body; his back came up against the post, staff dropping from nerveless fingers and clattering to the floor. Hawke’s lips curved in bemused victory— _damn him_ —as he pressed his advantage, moving in even closer. One big, gauntleted hand pressed against Anders’ chest, keeping him pinned in place.

 _This is all your fault_ , Anders thought to Justice, fighting the flush that wanted to immolate him from the inside out. He was _hard_ , void take him, cock trapped and aching against the heavy press of his robes. If he’d just been allowed to see to his body’s needs every now and again, he wouldn’t be desperately fighting the urge to buck his hips toward Hawke’s incredible heat.

Justice, strangely, seemed content to retreat to the corner of his mind, silent for once in the face of Anders’ weakness.

Hawke tipped his chin, eyes locked with Anders’. Anders could feel the heat of his breath against his cheeks. “Start talking, Grey Warden.”

“Big Brother, is this _really_ necessary?”

“Shh, Daisy, don’t interrupt them. I’m taking notes for my next book.”

Anders swallowed hard. “Usually talking isn’t a problem for me,” he murmured. His voice sounded suspiciously rusty, and it took a surprising amount of effort to press on. “But as I said, I’m not interested in helping you do…whatever it is you’re set on doing. So if you’re not here to drag me to the Warden-Commander, I—” He yelped when Hawke shoved him back, gauntleted hand pressing him _hard_ against the pillar. His cock gave an unsteady pulse of excitement, the traitor. “Although,” Anders added quickly, palms scrabbling back against the splintered wood. “A favor for a favor. Does that sound like a fair deal? You help me, I’ll help you?”

He’d never _seen_ eyes so blue. “No deal,” Hawke said. “You’re bluffing. If you know nothing, you’re no use to me.” He pressed closer—hard enough that Anders could swear he’d have a palm-shaped bruise over his heart later—then finally pulled back. Anders sagged against pitted wood and dragged in an unsteady breath. His legs felt ready to give out at any moment. His entire body ached. “We’ll get to the Deep Roads ourselves.”

Anders watched as Hawke turned away, gently snagging his sister’s sleeve and tugging her in his wake. “Come on,” he said. “He’s no use to us.” The dwarf scoffed but didn’t say anything. The guardswoman simply fell into step like a prickly ginger-haired shadow.

Little Hawke cast Anders a glance over her shoulder and mouthed, _Sorry about all this_.

Two more steps and they would be gone.

“Wait!”

Anders almost clapped a hand over his mouth in horror as Hawke turned to look at him over the spiky black ridge of his armor. Oh, Maker, what was he _thinking_?

“Wait,” he said again, pushing himself upright. He kept his voice steady by pure bullheaded determination, not giving himself time to think things through. “I have a Warden map of the depths in this area. But there’s a price.” _That_ had the man’s full attention. He could feel his heart giving a queer little lurch when Hawke turned fully to face him again. It felt… It felt, weirdly, like spreading naked beneath the blistering sun. Hot and sweaty and achingly good. It was too much and not enough all at once. Maker, there really was something terribly wrong with him. “I came to Kirkwall to aid a friend,” Anders said, eyes locking with Hawke’s. “A mage. A prisoner in the wretched Gallows. I’m afraid the Templars have learned of my plans to free him.” 

Aveline made a low noise of disapproval, but Hawke just tilted his head. _Continue_ , he seemed to be saying.

Anders wet his lips. “Help me bring him safely past them,” he said, “and you shall have your maps.”

He braced himself, half expecting… Well, he wasn’t sure quite what to expect. Most wouldn’t even consider his proposition. Freeing a mage? Defying the Chantry and Templars? He may as well have asked them to spit in Andraste’s face.

“Hawke,” Aveline began, but Hawke raised a hand, cutting her off.

“Bethany?” he murmured, tilting his head toward Little Hawke.

“It scares me,” she admitted, glancing up. The sheer trust and affection between the two was so clear, so _obvious_ , that Anders had to look away. It seemed too private a moment to share. Too intimate. “I don’t want to give the Templars another reason to hunt us.”

“And yet,” Hawke said quietly.

“And yet,” she agreed.

“These are my terms,” Anders said. “If you want my aid, meet me in the Chantry tonight. I have…already sent word to Karl to be there. Maker willing, we will all leave free men.”

“Maker willing,” Hawke echoed, voice surprisingly gentle. Anders jerked his chin up, startled, but the warrior was already turning to his companions. “Will this be a problem for you, Aveline?”

The guardswoman straightened, jaw going tight. “I’ll follow you, Hawke,” she said. “You know I will.”

“Very well. We may have use of your sword tonight. And Bianca too, so you can stop giving me that look, dwarf.” There was a tremor of amusement underlying the deep baritone. Anders watched, stunned. He’d…honestly never expected Hawke to agree so easily. Men like Hawke didn’t exert themselves for mage freedom, even if they did happen to agree with the cause. (And they almost never agreed with the cause.) “What should we call you?”

It took Anders a moment to realize Hawke was talking to _him_. “I’m…sorry?”

“What should we call you?” he repeated. “We can’t very well call you _mage_ or _Grey Warden_. Someone’s bound to get suspicious.”

“You know, you are step by step ruining a perfectly good anonymous encounter,” Bethany protested with a playful grin.

The look Hawke shot her would have sent any sane man stumbling back for his sword, but Bethany just stuck out her tongue playfully. “Yes, because reminding me of that right now is healthy for the both of you,” Hawke growled.

“Anders,” he cut in before Little Hawke—Bethany—could make things any more awkward for him. The last thing he wanted Hawke to remember was Anders’ tongue in his sister’s mouth. “My name is Anders. It is a, ah, pleasure to meet you, Serah Hawke.”

Hawke tilted his head, blue eyes on him again. The weight of them sent a shiver up Anders’ spine. Awareness coiled slow and insidious in the pit of his stomach. “No,” Hawke said, looking him up and down as if taking the measure of him. It felt like a caress. “I don’t think it will be. Unfortunately for you, it’s too late to take it back now.”

He turned away one final time, gesturing for Bethany to follow. “Come. _You_ are going home. Varric, stay here and keep our new friend company. Just in case.”

“I’m not going to make a run for it,” Anders cut in, practically rising up onto the balls of his feet in a surreal desire to _follow_. Clearly the taint had finally gone to his head; that was the only explanation for this insanity he could figure.

Hawke didn’t look back, but Anders could _feel_ the bemused smile curving the hard slash of his mouth. “No, I didn’t figure you were that bright. Varric?”

“Blondie and I will be waiting at the Chantry for you,” the dwarf assured Hawke. He headed to an empty seat, tugging off his crossbow and propping it with exaggerated care at his feet. “Don’t you worry.”

“I will count on it.”

Anders watched as Hawke, Bethany, and Aveline passed through the doorway and out of the clinic, leaving him alone with the dwarf and a head spinning with too many questions. The moment the door shut in Hawke’s wake, the tension seemed to bleed all at once from the room. Anders dragged in an unsteady breath, sagging back against the pillar. If he’d been truly alone, he would have given in to the temptation to slide down to the floor in a boneless puddle.

Maker’s _breath_ , what was he getting himself into? And why was he so bloody eager to see what happened next?

“You know, Blondie,” the dwarf said conversationally, studying his nails. He seemed perfectly content to ignore Anders unraveling quietly before him. “I’m something of a storyteller myself; I have a nose for a good yarn. So tell me.” He flicked his gaze up, one blond brow arching. “You and Hawke? What’s the tale there?”

Anders swallowed. His body was still throwing sparks, fear and excitement and confusion swirling deep in his blood. He’d never met anyone who made him feel like this. It was bloody terrifying. “I…couldn’t even begin to tell you,” Anders murmured.

“That’s all right; I have more than enough time to pry the story from you.”

Anders closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the post. He swore he could still feel the heat of Hawke’s big body close to his own. He wanted more. _This, Justice,_ he thought with a shiver, _is most definitely all your fault._


	3. Chapter 3

Anders had been afraid Varric Tethras would make a nuisance of himself and end up scaring away all of his patients. As it turned out, he was only half right—Varric _did_ make a nuisance of himself, but Anders’ blasted patients loved every minute of it.

He glanced up from his desk, gnawing on his thumbnail as he paused to watch Varric’s one-man show. The dwarf had taken up camp in the center of the clinic. _Holding court_. A half-dozen kids were sitting around him, listening with enraptured expressions as he told another of his stories. A few of the adults had begun to drift over as well, including one of Anders’ assistants.

Not a blasted bit of work had been done all day. No one wanted to roll bandages or strip down elfroot or check the potency of their meager supply of stored draughts when the dwarf was yammering on about… Maker, what _was_ he talking about?

Anders stood and allowed himself to drift closer, curious despite himself.

“The elf stood there, blue light flickering along the tattooed lyrium curling up his bare flesh, facing off against our hero. Bodies lay between them, all around them, but neither spared the gutted corpses a second glance.”

 _Lyrium tattoos?_ Anders mused. That seemed bloody unlikely.

Varric slowly leaned in, lowering his voice into a guttural rasp. “‘I apologize,’ the elf said. It was clear the words were foreign to his tongue. ‘When I sought your aid, providing a distraction for the Crows hired by my former master, I had no idea they would be so…numerous.’

“‘A full murder of them, you could say,’ the clever dwarf added. Neither man paid him any mind, quite unfortunately.” Varric looked up and caught Anders’ eye, winking. Anders fought the impulse to make a rude face back.

“What did the hero do?” one of the little girls asked. Her eyes were huge, hands clasped between her knees.

“He gutted the elf!” a boy added, brandishing one arm like a sword. 

Another boy reached out, pretending to thrust his fist into the skinny chest. “I’m a scary elf!” the boy snarled, but the ‘hero’ twisted around and knocked the boy’s arm away, slashing at his throat with his fingertips. “WHITCHAW!” he cried…in what Anders could only assume was supposed to be the sound of metal parting flesh.

The ‘scary elf’ collapsed over the protesting girl, gurgling wetly. And now he had children pretending to bleed out in the middle of his infirmary. Wonderful.

“Stop it,” the girl protested, shoving the boys away. She turned back to Varric earnestly. “Please, what did the hero do?”

Varric reached to take her hand, tugging her up and out of the tussle. Despite himself, Anders was just as curious how the story would progress. He used to love stories, and Varric was certainly better at telling them than Oghren ever was. “‘The Crows do not frighten me,’ the warrior said. When he spoke, the elf froze. Time itself seemed to stop, as if even the Maker couldn’t help but pause to listen. He had that way about him. That _spark_ all good heroes have. ‘But use me again, and you won’t have breath to regret it.’”

Anders shivered. He couldn’t help it; Varric was _very good_ at low, menacing voices. If Anders were honest with himself—which he wasn’t going to be, thanks—the way Varric described the hero made him sound almost… Well. Anders could see the appeal, at least.

As if sensing Anders’ reluctant interest, Varric ticked his gaze up, meeting his eyes. His smile was nothing short of wicked. “The clever dwarf wished the hero was the sort who used puns in public. He could think of a good dozen rejoinders that would have been more dramatic than _that_. He pondered a few as the hero and the elf circled around each other like wary cats. The best, he decided, the most _apt_ , would have been: _You won’t find this bird of prey such an easy mark_.”

Anders straightened with a squawk. “What, _Hawke_?” he demanded. “You’re telling stories about _Hawke_?”

He paused, flushing, when he realized everyone had turned to stare at him. “Ah, not that it— Right,” Anders said. “Never mind. Carry on.”

Varric jerked his chin at him, brows arching sharply as if to say, _Yes, very smooth, Blondie_. “Stick around, kids,” the dwarf said, eyes never leaving Anders’. “And maybe I’ll tell you the story about how our hero Hawke found himself a poor, bedraggled sparrow to nurse back to health…or _consume whole_. I’m still waiting to see how all that plays out.”

Anders hunched his shoulders and stalked away, muttering about _some people_ actually having work to do. Even still, he was distracted the rest of the day, finding himself straining to hear what other wild and improbable stories Varric Tethras was cooking up about his friend.

Not that he _cared_ one way or the other, of course.

Finally, several hours later, Anders saw the last of his patients out of the clinic. He checked the space one last time before locking up behind them (an exercise in futility here in Darktown, but it made him feel slightly more secure) and extinguishing the lantern. Varric watched this all with a bemused expression.

“What?” Anders finally demanded, shouldering his staff. He was nervous and out of sorts from a day spent trying to ignore his babysitter and worrying about Karl. As the hours ticked by, he’d found himself more and more consumed by thoughts of the evening ahead. Had he done the right thing by asking Karl to meet him? Was he doing the right thing now by bringing along obviously deranged mercenaries and their circus of bizarre companions? 

Maker, he hoped he wasn’t making a horrible mistake.

“Nothing, Blondie,” Varric said, falling into step beside him. Anders made a concerted effort to keep his stride short—which, it turned out after a few minutes, was completely unnecessary. Varric had surface-dweller written all over him. He moved quickly to match a human’s stride without seeming to be rushed. “I’m just sizing you up. Hawke’s been collecting an interesting crew over the last few weeks. I thought he’d bottomed out on strange with the Tevinter ex-slave and the Dalish blood mage, but it seems like he was just hitting his stride.”

“Dalish _blood_ — You know what? Never mind.” Anders set his jaw, refusing to look at the dwarf or let himself be baited. “It doesn’t matter what sort of company Hawke keeps. I’ve not been _collected_.”

They moved up the creaking stairs one after the other, careful not to put too much weight on any one floorboard. You never knew, in Darktown, when the next step would be fatal. Or at least extremely messy.

Varric dodged a dead rat and hurried up toward the main streets of Lowtown with one last, disdainful glance cast over his shoulder. “Oh, you’ve been collected, Blondie. Believe me. Next thing you know, you’ll be following Hawke around town cracking skulls and collecting loot off cooling bodies. You’ll probably find yourself going down with him into the Deep Roads when he manages to put his affairs in order.”

Anders scowled. “Trust me, the _last_ place I’m going to end up is the blighted Deep Roads. I’ve had enough of that place to last me a lifetime.” He turned a corner, leading the way up toward Hightown. “Nine lifetimes.”

“Hawke will convince you,” Varric said smugly. “He’s got the temper of a feral mabari, but there’s no denying he’s got charm too, in spades.”

“Not nearly enough,” Anders vowed.

Varric just smirked at him; Anders deliberately hurried his steps.

It was full dark when they reached the Chantry, though a few people were still out and about—most of them men, and most of them heading in the direction of the Rose. Anders skirted about them, moving back into the shadows to study the Chantry from afar. It was huge and old and grand. An endless score of steps led up to massive doors.

“I should have checked to see how many entrances would be open this time of night,” Anders murmured.

“You’re not a very good would-be rescuer, are you?”

He opened his mouth to protest, then sighed and relaxed back. Fair was fair, after all. “No,” he agreed. “This whole thing was probably a bad idea. With Knight-Commander Meredith tightening her grip on the Circle, Karl may not even be able to get to the Chantry. Senior enchanters are being held in their rooms like apprentices; it’s madness. This whole thing is madness.”

Varric cast him a brief, wryly sympathetic look. “It’ll all work out, Blondie,” he said. “We may _look_ like a ragtag band of crazies—and to be fair, many of us would qualify—but Hawke’s… You’ve never met anyone like Hawke before, I can promise you that. If your Karl isn’t here tonight, he’ll carve him out of the Circle whether Meredith likes it or not. Honestly,” Varric added, “I’m beginning to suspect he’d be happier if she didn’t like it.”

“So he is a supporter?” Anders had guessed as much from Hawke’s brief exchange with Bethany just a few hours before, but he was greedy for more information about the strange warrior. For the cause, he told himself. That was all.

“Oh, no,” Varric said, holding up a hand. “No, no, I am not getting involved in _that_. You want to find out Hawke’s political leanings, you ask him yourself. In the meantime, his clever dwarf biographer is going to do what his addled-brained apostate _should_ have done and check the other entrances.” He paused. “That would be you. Come on, Blondie, let’s get some legwork done.”

Anders followed Varric through the shadows. “You know,” he murmured, careful to keep his voice pitched low. The streets were almost completely empty now, but you never knew who might be hiding about the next pillar. “I’m having vivid flashbacks to my time with the Wardens right now. _They_ liked to take the piss out of me too.” His lips twitched in surprisingly fond memory, and he could feel Justice coiling at the base of his skull, vibrating pleasantly at the thought of the Warden-Commander. “Everything smells better without Oghren around, though.”

“This coming from the man reeking of Darktown.” Varric paused, scanning the square, then hurried across the open span of moonlight. “I shudder to think what you smelled like before.”

Anders muffled a protest, hurrying in his wake. However, as they paused at a corner, glancing down the alleys, he lifted one feathered shoulder to his nose and gave a discreet sniff. He probably should have changed into something a little cleaner before heading out tonight. For Karl, he quickly amended. There wasn’t anyone else he cared to impress.

At the thought, almost as if he’d summoned him, Anders spotted a grey-haired robed figure just as he passed through a doorway. _Karl_ , he was certain of it, even without glimpsing his face. Anders lurched forward, eager to follow, but Varric caught the end of his robe and dragged him back with a low, “Whoa, whoa, whoa now.”

“That was Karl,” Anders protested, twisting about. The dwarf had his fingers firmly tangled up in folds of dirty grey fabric. “I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not disputing that. But the plan is to keep an eye out and wait for Hawke. So that’s what we’re going to do.”

Anders looked back toward the now-closed door. “But—”

“Trust me, Blondie. Trust Hawke. Speaking of the demon himself,” he added, letting go. Anders turned to follow Varric’s gaze, instinctively straightening. He refused to admit to himself that his heart had began to pick up speed at the sight of Hawke moving out of the shadows.

Hawke had stripped out of his massive armor and had settled for comfortable-looking leathers. Dark, still, and pitted along the various black buckles and straps. The tighter fit of the armor outlined a body the metal breastplate had only hinted at—huge and broad and heavy with roped muscle. Hawke’s chest and shoulders were massive, tapering down into a relatively slim waist (relative only to the sheer size of him) and powerful thighs. The boots were old and well-worn, sculpting the thick muscles of his calves. The black straps of leather keeping his ridiculously oversized sword in place were flecked with blood.

He’d shaven and pulled his dark hair back into a neat queue, however. He still looked too wild and frightening by half, but he was an inch closer to respectable. Anders wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Varric, of course, was. “Pretty as a picture,” he teased, rubbing his own chin playfully.

Hawke stopped a few paces away and grinned back. It was…strange to see this big, fierce man smiling. Unexpected, though not in a bad way. Not at all. “Well, we _are_ going to church,” Hawke said. His gaze ticked over to Anders, sending that strange, uncomfortable feeling coiling through him again. “Isabela and Aveline are securing the premises.”

Anders straightened, fighting a flush. “I saw Karl go inside a few minutes ago. No Templars so far,” he added. “Are you ready?”

“We didn’t see anyone suspicious out here, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t a trap. Let’s do this fast, and smart.”

“Which is my cue,” the dwarf added, tugging his huge crossbow free.

Anders shot him a quick look, but his gaze turned back to Hawke almost immediately. “All right. I’ll handle the talking. You watch for Templars.” He hesitated, then moved past Hawke toward the door. The big warrior fell in step behind him. Varric skirted ahead, muttering something about tripwires.

“Thank you for doing this,” Anders murmured on impulse. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. “Not many men would.”

“Not many men are like me.”

Anders looked up at that, startled, but Hawke merely held the door open for him. His lips curved into another unexpected smile. “Come on, Grey Warden,” Hawke said, gesturing for Anders to go before him. “Let’s free your friend.”


	4. Chapter 4

If only it had been that easy.

Anders couldn’t fault Hawke for how badly the evening went from there—the warrior did everything right, with the practiced ease of a veteran general. The premises had been secured. The entranceway had been checked for traps. Varric remained behind to hold their exit, just in case a quick escape became necessary.

Hawke himself moved with surprisingly quiet grace. He drew his massive sword as they passed into the nave; candlelight flickered across bared steel. His jaw was set, blue eyes ghosting over dim, strange shapes made by statues and winged candelabra. Anders did his best to be just as alert, but his heart was jackrabbiting in his chest and his palms were beginning to sweat.

Karl was close. He was sure of it.

Anders glanced over his shoulder at a soft rasp of steel on steel, spotting the red-headed guardswoman back toward the narthex of the church. She had her shield strapped to her back, but her sword was drawn, ready, as she pushed open one of the doors leading up to the Chantry offices. A dark-haired woman was slipping up the left-side steps toward the north transept. Hawke was leading him toward the southern transept, where rows of cots were set out nightly for Kirkwall’s sick and poor. Anders couldn’t remember a time when he’d seen them filled—like everything about the church, they were an empty gesture. A show of mercy that had never truly existed.

Justice stirred inside him at the thought, but he pushed it away. Now wasn’t the time to be dwelling on the sins of the Chantry; tonight he was here for Karl.

Hawke paused at the crest of the steps, grip shifting on his two-handed blade. He cocked his head back at Anders, then nodded toward the far end of the transept. Anders hurried up the last few steps. His breath caught at the sight of the robed figure standing with his back to them.

_Thank the Maker._

Anders stepped forward with a growing smile, anxiety beginning to bleed away. They’d broken into the Chantry. They’d found Karl waiting for them. Now all that remained was to slip out again with no one the wiser. _This_ , he thought with a shivery sensation of relief, _couldn’t have gone more smoothly._

He opened his mouth to call Karl’s name when a shrill whistle pierced the dim. Anders looked over his shoulder, startled, and Hawke cursed. He had his sword raised, body pivoting as he searched for…what? There was no one _here_.

Somewhere toward the main altar, stone scraped against stone.

“Anders,” Karl said. His voice was strangely atonal. Anders jerked back to look at him. “I know you too well. I knew you would never give up.”

There was a warning clank of metal some distance away, followed by another shrill whistle. A second, lower call echoed from the narthex, trilling twice. Down below, the guardswoman was running toward the stairs, sword and shield at the ready.

 _No_ , Anders thought, gripping his staff tight. _No, void take it_. He pushed forward, ignoring Hawke’s warning murmur. His heart was pounding again, this time echoed by a sick twisting in his gut. Karl didn’t sound like himself. If anything, Karl sounded…

Maker, he couldn’t finish the thought.

“What’s wrong?” Anders demanded. He reached for his friend. “Why are you talking like—”

Karl turned. The red sun burned accusingly across his pale brow. “I was too rebellious,” he said flatly. “Like you. The Templars knew I had to be made an example of.”

“ _No_!”

He was dimly aware of Hawke shouting and the guardswoman bellowing a response. Metal clanged against metal, and the almost musical jingle of chainmail blurred with the raw drag of stone. Justice was pulsing inside him, filling his chest with blue fire. Anders gasped at the almost-painful sear of it, grip shifting on his staff, eyes burning as cracks whispered across his skin. He felt like a kettle ready to boil over. He felt like the shifting earth seconds before a quake.

“Karl,” he husked. His voice was broken as well, Fade spirit bleeding through. It _hurt_ , inside and out.

Karl didn’t seem to notice. Karl was no longer _equipped_ to notice. “How else will mages ever master themselves? You’ll understand, Anders. As soon as the Templars teach you to control yourself.” Karl lifted his pale blue eyes, looking over Anders’ shoulder. “This is the apostate,” he said.

And then, in an explosion of fury, of _madness_ sharp enough to drive him to his knees, Justice took control. He didn’t fight it. For the first time in what felt like ages, Anders was only too glad to sink back into darkness and let the spirit have him.

When he came to himself again, the Templars were dead. Hawke, Varric, the guardswoman, and the dark-haired rogue were staring at him in varying degrees of shock and fear and fury. Hawke’s jaw tightened as he twisted his blade free of a Templar’s young body.

“There are things you haven’t told us,” he said sharply. The threat there couldn’t have been more clear.

Anders listed up, one hand lifting to touch his brow. His knees trembled and he felt weak as a babe, but Karl’s voice—the _real_ Karl, the Karl he’d known and loved—was enough to pull him fully to his feet with a low cry.

“I… _Anders_ ,” Karl gasped, “what did you do?”

“ _Karl_ ,” he said, staggering forward. He reached out, stumbling, nearly falling to his knees. Karl caught him against his body, gripping Anders’ forearms to help keep him steady. His blue eyes were wide, wild. Wholly himself again, somehow, _thank the Maker_.

Hawke moved to stand behind them, wiping his blood-soaked blade on a torn strip of cloth. It looked suspiciously like one of the Chantry banners. “I thought the Tranquil were cut off from the Fade forever,” he said.

Karl looked down into Anders’ face. “They are. When you’re Tranquil, you never think of your life before. But it’s like the Fade itself is inside Anders, burning like a sun.”

That sounded surprisingly accusing. Anders pulled back from the awkward semi-embrace, shivering. He was all too aware of all eyes locked on him…of the dead bodies scattered about the transept, many of them little more than pink mist and seared flesh.

 _That was me_ , he thought. _This was our justice._

“I have some…unique circumstances, yes,” he murmured. He didn’t feel guilty for the Templar deaths. That in itself was something of a shock. Shouldn’t he have cared about wasted life, even if they had sworn themselves to an unjust cause? 

Anders tried to shake the thought free. _Later_. He’d worry about all that later. There were far more important things to focus on now. “But Karl, what happened? How did they get you?”

The dark-haired woman and the dwarf moved to inspect the bodies. Looting the corpses, likely. The guardswoman remained hovering at Hawke’s shoulder, eyes scanning the dim as if waiting for another wave of Templars. For his part, Hawke’s eyes never left Anders, cold and glittering as stars.

“The Templars here are far more vigilant than in Ferelden,” Karl said. He passed his hand over his brow, fingertips searching out the seared brand. Anders’ own fingertips tingled, as if he could feel the heat of that sun against them. “They found a letter I was writing you… _Maker_.” Karl’s hand dropped. “You cannot imagine it, Anders. All the color, all the music in the world, gone. I would gladly give up my magic, but this? I’ll never be whole again.”

“Don’t say that,” Anders protested.

Karl touched his brand again. Gray brows drew together, and his hand was trembling. No, Anders realized with a cold stir of fear, his entire body was trembling, as if he were fighting off some creeping fever. “Please,” Karl said. “Please, Anders, you have to kill me before I forget again. I don’t know how you brought it back, but it’s fading.”

He could _see_ it in Karl’s eyes, confusion growing with each passing moment. “Karl, _no_.” He reached up to cup his former lover’s face, trying to meet his eyes, trying to tether him to this moment. _Justice_ , he thought desperately. Justice had brought Karl back; Justice could _keep_ him here. _Justice, please, help us._

The Fade spirit was damnably silent.

Karl reached up to curl his fingers around Anders’ wrists. “I would rather die as a mage than live as a Templar puppet,” he murmured.

Anders shook his head, body tensing against the inevitability of loss. He pulled back, putting distance between them. “No,” he said, straining to force Justice back into control. If he could only just— If he could just—

A shockingly gentle hand settled on his shoulder and he turned his face, aware of Hawke standing close. He could smell him—sweat and leather and steel and blood. Anders closed his eyes, feeling the hot threat of tears as Hawke pressed something into his grasp and carefully, deliberately closed his fingers around the leather-wrapped hilt. “He would rather die than be Tranquil,” Hawke murmured, so low only Anders and Karl could hope to hear. Anders made a low noise of protest, but Hawke simply tightened his grip about his fingers, as if he could help him wield the blade. “Help him.”

 _Help him_. As if that were so simple a task.

His shoulders bowed forward in defeat.

“I got here too late,” Anders murmured. “I’m sorry, Karl. I’m so sorry.”

He took a shuffling step forward. His lashes were wet as he lifted his eyes to meet Karl’s. Karl had been the first. In another world, another life lived outside the Circle, Karl may have been the love of his life.

And he was steadily slipping away. “Now,” he breathed. “Anders, it’s fading.” 

Anders reached out to grasp the familiar shoulder. His fingers tangled in muted robes and he met his once-lover’s eyes. He could _see_ the moment awareness left them. He watched in silent, aching horror as the light seemed to dim, and then go eerily flat. Glassy, as smooth as Lake Calenhad in springtide.

Karl was gone.

“Why do you look at me like that?” the thing who wore Karl’s face murmured.

Anders no longer had it in him to mourn. “Goodbye,” he murmured, sliding the blade into the dead man’s belly. There was no resistance. He may as well have been a ghost. Anders dragged in an unsteady breath and twisted up, feeling the hot spurt of blood soak his fingers. Karl stared at him, brows knit in confusion…and then he slowly slid back, dropping like a stone at Anders’ feet.

Anders gripped Hawke’s blade in deadened fingers. He felt…he didn’t know how he felt anymore. He felt Tranquil, himself. “We should leave before more Templars come,” he said in a flat voice, turning toward the stairs. The knife clattered from his fingers.

Hawke fell into step behind him without a word.


	5. Chapter 5

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice he’d made it all the way back to Darktown until he was unlocking the clinic’s main door. The tumblers were loud in the gloom, ancient metal clicking into place as he turned the key. The sound seemed to carry unnaturally far, echoing through the dark warrens, announcing his presence.

Well. And what did it matter, anyway? If the Templars came for him tonight, let them have him. He was too tired to fight.

Anders pushed the door open, unsteadily breathing in the heavy, dank stink of the undercity, and shuffled inside. He felt eighty years old—older. Worn down and chipped away and feeling more hopeless than he had in years. He turned to shut the door, shoulders slumped.

Bed, he thought, the big door’s hinges creaking in protest. _Just, for Maker’s sake, go to bed. You can care about the world tomorrow_.

He startled when a broad hand slapped against the splintered wood a few inches away from his face, stopping the door before it could fully close. Anders looked up into eyes the color of a lyrium vein; his insides rattled within the empty shell of his body, stomach twisting.

“Let me in,” Hawke said.

Hawke had followed him. No, of _course_ Hawke had followed him—he’d want to ask questions about what he’d seen at the Chantry. Anders closed his eyes, squeezing them shut tight against the memory of blue light cracking along his skin, of Karl’s words. “Oh, no. No. No no no. Not tonight.” Anders pushed at the door, but Hawke held steady, unmovable as the Anderfells themselves. He frowned when Anders cursed, dark brows drawing together. “I’ll give you your maps, and your explanation, and your damn pound of flesh later. Tonight I just…”

He trailed off as Hawke gently _pushed_ ; his arms were too weak to put up much of a fight. Anders sighed and stepped away, wearily scrubbing at his face as the door rebounded off the opposite wall. “Void take you,” he muttered and turned to shuffle toward his bed.

Hawke seemed content enough to ignore him. He hovered in the doorway, back to Anders, and murmured in a quiet voice to his companions. Anders tuned them out, pulling the chipped basin from where he kept it tucked out of sight (to keep it from being mixed up with those intended for the clinic) and called up an ice spell. Shards of brilliant white-blue filled the basin, snowflakes dusting across the table. He could feel the breeze of it, the cooling wind soothing his too-tight skin.

Then Anders pressed his palm over the ice-filled bowl and called up a flame. He watched dully as fire licked painlessly around his fingers. Within the bowl, the ice began to melt.

The Warden-Commander had taught him this trick—among others—back what felt like lifetimes ago. She’d walked him through the ice spell over and over, laughing whenever he inevitably lost control and froze Nate to the taproom bench.

The memory of her laugh and Nate’s frosty ( _literally; ha_ ) scowl made him smile. Those had been simpler times, Anders mused. Simpler and happier and somehow hollow in the remembering.

He splashed his hands into the lukewarm water, extinguishing the flame, and leaned close to wash his face.

There was a heavy footfall behind him. Armor clanked, then again, louder.

“Need a hand there, fearless leader?” a woman asked. Anders paused, hands cupped against his face, eyes closed. Water trickled from between his fingers and trailed in a quiet waterfall back to the cracked bowl. “I could loosen some buckles for you. I have very clever fingers, you know.”

Hawke’s quiet laugh made Anders’ stomach tighten in response. “You’re just looking for an excuse to get into my armor, Isabela,” he said.

“Always,” the woman—Isabela—shot back. “Though if you had any real sense, I wouldn’t need an _excuse_.”

Anders straightened, shaking out his hands. Drops of water were streaming down his face and running into his eyes, but he couldn’t help but turn to see what was happening. _Idle curiosity_ , he reassured himself; the dejected weariness was, oddly enough, beginning to fade slowly into the background in the face of it.

 _What_ was Hawke doing?

Hawke, his brain oh-so helpfully informed him, was getting undressed.

Or at least, Hawke was stripping out of his armor and down to closely-fitted underarmor. He moved like a man who was familiar with all the steps of this dance, hands yanking at straps and loosening greaves. Dark metal was fitted to black leather, forming interesting patterns that shifted and moved in the dim. It clanked together, scraped raw, as Hawke set aside gauntlets, cuisse, pauldrons. Loose strands of dark hair fell into his harsh face as he looked down, big hands strangely delicate on the many buckles holding his cuirass in place.

Anders tried to look away, grief blending with anger, giving way to confusion and reluctant interest. He wanted to demand to know what Hawke thought he was doing; at the same time, he wanted to reach out and push his hands aside, wanted to take the worn leather between his own clever fingers and help crack open the shell of Hawke’s armor. His palms itched with the desire. Anders let out a soft, hissing breath and forced his hands behind his back.

Isabela glanced at him, one brow arched as if to say, _You too_?

“Are the two of you just going to stand there and stare?”

He jerked guiltily at Hawke’s voice, fighting not to flush. Anders made a noncommittal noise and hurried to go light some candles. Isabela just laughed. “Well, if you’re not going to let us help, the least you can do is let us _admire_. Mm, naked Hawke.”

Anders did _not_ whirl back around at that, but it was a near thing. Near enough that he had to set his jaw and desperately try to think of a polite way to say, _Thanks for everything you’ve done; I would have been caught and made Tranquil if not for you. Now bugger off so I can mourn in peace._ It seemed…wrong, somehow, to let himself be distracted from his grief, even for a moment. It felt surreal and unexpected and _good_ and wholly undeserved.

He tightened his fingers around the hurricane glass as he turned and brought the guttering candle back toward Hawke and his growing pile of armor.

“Admire more quietly, Iz—you’re going to give our new mage fits.”

 _Our new mage_ , Anders thought. Varric, it seemed, had been right. “I’m not,” Anders began, then, “I didn’t—”

He met Hawke’s eyes and his heart gave a queer, helpless lurch. It felt like falling from a great height.

“Well, I’m bloody well not going with you into the Deep Roads,” Anders finally settled on. He tore his gaze away with sheer bullheaded strength and focused on cleaning a space on the main table for the hurricane glass. It served as his writing desk—and sometimes a spare cot when necessary—but tonight it would have to do for guests. Guests. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had _guests_. “I had more than enough of that place to last me ten lifetimes.”

There was a soft footfall in the doorway. “More than enough of which place?” a lilting voice asked, before, “Ooh, is this the apostate Bethany was going on about? He’s very handsome.”

All three of them glanced over as a petite Dalish elf stepped inside. Her dark hair was pulled into a series of intricate knots and her eyes were impossibly large, casting back the pale flicker of candlelight like twin stars. She was looking around in open curiosity, turning as she moved across the uneven dirt floor to peer up at the ceiling. She nearly toppled over a cot but righted herself easily even as Isabela reached to snag her elbow.

“Careful there, Kitten. Our new apostate isn’t much of a housekeeper.”

The elf cast Anders an understanding glance. “I wouldn’t worry about it so very much,” she assured him. “I can _never_ keep my place tidy when Hawke comes around, isn’t that right, Hawke?”

“This, I, _who are you_?”

She brightened. “Merrill! And you’re Anders.” Merrill squinted and leaned closer to study his face, then giggled. “Oh my, yes, I see what Bethany was saying now.”

He had the strangest impulse to cover his head with a blanket. “Yes, well, hello Merrill, but more to the point, I suppose—what are you doing here?” Anders shot a look at Hawke, who was bent over at the waist, removing heavy boots. His underarmor was little more than a loose black shirt knotted by a leather cord at the throat and trousers that were so snug Anders could see the interplay of muscles along big, powerful thighs. His throat went dry at the sight and he braced for the clamor of Justice in his skull.

Nothing. Not a peep.

And Merrill was babbling on. “…showed up at the alienage and told me we were all to come here. She sent young Torin—you remember Torin, don’t you, Hawke? He followed you around for, oh, weeks and made the strangest little noise whenever you turned to look at him—to go fetch Fenris.” She frowned. “Though perhaps Aveline should have fetched Fenris and sent Torin after Bethany; if _you_ scare him, I can’t even imagine what Fenris will do.”

“Fenris?”

It was like being drunk, Anders decided, attention splitting between the cheerfully chirping elf, the strangely familiar Isabela—where _did_ he know her from? He was sure he recognized her from somewhere—and, well, Hawke. Hawke straightened, tossing aside the last of his armor. He stretched his arms over his head, muscles _rippling_ under his thin underarmor in a way that was frankly indecent.

“Fenris is the gang’s big, brooding elf. Delicious,” Isabela said, hopping up onto the table. She swung her booted feet; when she leaned forward, her full breasts nearly tumbled from her tight corset. “He’s not going to like _you_ very much, though—he’s not a fan of magic.”

“Ooh, no,” Merrill agreed. “He’s not going to like you at all; but that’s all right because Hawke likes you very much. Isn’t that right, Hawke?”

All three of them turned to look at Hawke as one. He straightened, both brows arched, and raked his fingers through his hair. “Hawke is reserving judgment,” he said. 

That shouldn’t have made him feel as pleased as it did. What was wrong with him, Anders wondered some hazy span of time later as he was dragging out cots for people to sit on and apologizing—apologizing!—for the state of the Darktown clinic. The others were making themselves comfortable in his space, as easy as if they had always been there. (As easy as if they had been invited in the first place.) 

Anders watched Hawke through his lashes as he spread a relatively clean blanket over the last stained cot. He was the unquestioned center of this little universe. Isabela and Merrill swung around him in their own distinct ways, but it was clear from where the pull of gravity emanated. Anders couldn’t help but wonder if _he_ was so obviously circling around Hawke’s magnetic tug, too. He thought, judging by Isabela’s occasional smirks, that he must be.

He would…think about that later, Anders decided.

Hawke, for his part, seemed to have lost interest in the three of them as the minutes ticked past. He was watching the door instead, staring at it intently. Then suddenly he cursed under his breath and grabbed for his huge sword. He was shoving his feet back into his armored boots even as he skirted the main table; he stomped them on with each heavy step, moving with abrupt purpose. “It’s taking too long to fetch Bethany,” he said, low growl enough to send gooseflesh racing up Anders’ arms. “I’m going to see if they ran into trouble. Isabela, run a tight ship.”

She threw him a saucy salute. “Aye aye. Though it’s really _Captain_ Isabela to you!” she called after him, leaning so far over that Anders nearly reached out to steady her. One hand was actually raised when her dark eyes cut back to him. She waggled her brows.

He pulled back, flushing, then frowned. There was really something eerily _familiar_ about that wide grin, though he couldn’t manage to place it. Trying to shrug it off, Anders went back to fitfully tidying the clinic. He tucked a box of empty healing draughts beneath the table and carefully moved the more precious scrolls from Isabela’s careless curiosity. He subtly brushed his foot over the floor to scatter a pile of ash. He wondered if it was crazy for him to even care. The minutes crawled past, Merrill occasionally chattering to fill the time, but it was all too easy to tune her out. There were other things on his mind now.

A low, mournful wind blew through the high windows, and Anders looked up, feeling the air on his face like a breath. Hawke…didn’t need help, did he?

 _Don’t be stupid_ , he told himself. Even so, his fingers itched for his staff.

“Something wrong?” Isabela glanced toward Merrill, who was poking through some of the clinic’s dry stores, making curious noises in the back of her throat and wrinkling her nose now and again at a particularly strong smell.

“Hm? Oh. No.” He turned toward her, trying to hide the way his fingers flexed irritably. He hoped she wasn’t as good at reading his face as the dwarf had been. “That is,” Anders added quickly, hoping to distract her, “I keep thinking I know you from somewhere.”

She hopped off the table at the heavy thud of a boot hitting the door. Finally. It swung open again, and it wasn’t that Anders’ heart leapt at the thought of it being Hawke—that would have been ridiculous—but it may have sunk just a little when he saw it was the dwarf. Varric had his arms full of small, stacked crates, crossbow strapped to his broad back. “That doesn’t seem impossible,” Isabella admitted, moving to take a crate. Anders followed in her wake, taking a second; he nearly staggered in surprise at the weight of it, casting an incredulous look at the smirking dwarf. Maker, how far had he lugged these things? “You’re Fereden, right? Ever spend time at the Pearl?”

All at once the connection came to him. “That’s it!” Anders wheezed, stumbling a few steps before straightening his back. He cast Isabella a quick look. She’d been different then—longer hair, less flashy clothing—but he could definitely remember scanning the brothel and meeting her sly smile. That had been…Maker, ages ago. A _lifetime_ ago. “You used to really like that girl with—Maker.” He huffed a breath as he shifted the weight of the crate, gratefully moving to set it next to the table. Inside, bottles rattled together. What was that all about? “With the griffon tattoos, right?” He straightened. “What was her name?”

“Hmm? The Lady Warden?”

He snapped his fingers. “That’s right! I think you were there the night I—”

“Oh!” She straightened with a laugh, and the look she cast him—slow, appraising—was a great deal warmer than it had been just a few moments before. “Were _you_ the runaway mage who could do that electricity thing? That was nice…”

Isabela practically purred the last of it.

“You do tricks?” Merrill interrupted. She pressed her palms against the table and leaned forward, looking between them with a hopeful expression. “Oh, show me the electricity thing!”

The door opened again. “Ah,” Anders said, rubbing the back of his neck. He could feel the blush rising from his toes; Justice swelled inside him in disgruntled ill-humor. He always reminded Anders of a ruffled hen when he did that, feathers fluffing wide in outrage. “I’m not sure that would be entirely, ah, appropriate.”

Her whole demeanor drooped. “But you showed Isabela.”

“Yes, well…how old are you?”

Isabela leaned close, dark eyes glittering. “Older than you’d think. You _should_ show her; it was a _very_ good trick. Mm, the night we had with that…electricity thing. The girls were talking about Sparklefingers for weeks after you’d gone.”

“Please stop talking,” a stern voice interrupted. “Now.” Aveline slung off her sword and carefully set her shield next to it. Anders barely flicked his eyes toward it—then froze, heart catching in his throat. It was Templar make, of all things; seeing the familiar, hated symbol _here_ , in his clinic, after what had happened…

All at once, everything came rushing back. The Chantry. The trap. Karl’s empty eyes. Templars waiting in the wings. Blood on his hands.

“A history with Rivaini?” Varric added. “Hawke won’t be very pleased to hear that.”

“ _Sod_ it,” Anders snarled, turning away abruptly. They were pulling bottles of alcohol and plates of wrapped food from the crates, setting up as if this were a common space—a _tavern_ —and not his home, his refuge. _All_ he had wanted was quiet in which to grieve Karl. _All_ he had wanted was to be left alone.

That wasn’t going to happen here.

Anders’ eyes were burning. He kept his head down as he practically fled for the door, intending…Maker only knew what. All of Darktown lay open before him; if he couldn’t find peace in his own little hovel, perhaps he’d find it in some dank sewer somewhere. At least there he’d be away from this macabre gaiety, from this, this _revelry_.

Varric opened a bottle to a bright cheer. Merrill exclaimed, “Oh, Leandra’s puffs!” as she pulled out a wrapped dish. The tableau they made was bright and warm and _welcoming_ and thoroughly undeserved. A party like that was meant for the living, for family, and Anders was…

He was…

He pushed through the door and nearly mowed over _another_ uninvited guest. Anders grabbed for Bethany’s shoulders before she could go tumbling down into the dirt; the similarity between this and their first meeting was so stark and bitter he could taste it at the back of his throat.

“Anders,” she said, surprised.

“Tell your brother,” Anders blurted, gripping her shoulders. He felt like twine that had been stretched to its breaking point—one sharp tug and he’d go flying apart. _Maker take me, Karl_. “You _tell_ him…”

She looked at him with her wide, compassionate brown eyes. The red kerchief at her throat only highlighted her youthful beauty. “Yes?” Bethany prompted quietly, studying his face. “What should I tell him?”

He hadn’t realized how close he was to crumbling. Being with the crowd, listening to their noisy banter—taking _part_ in it, as if he were outside of himself—he’d felt…normalized. Almost content. Held together, as if the unwelcome chaos Hawke had thrust on him had been _good_ for him somehow. “You tell him,” Anders tried again, voice trembling.

“Bethy,” Hawke’s low voice interrupted from the darkness. He stepped into view, a white-haired elf at his heels. When he reached to snag Anders’ elbow in a firm grip, the world narrowed down with a _whoosh_ to that place where their bodies touched, grief becoming a pinpoint, then fading away. It wasn’t right, Anders thought shakily, the way one man could banish all rational thought like that. It wasn’t _sane_. “Go inside. Anders can tell me for himself.”

She carefully stepped away, but Anders didn’t try to hold her back; his eyes were locked with Hawke’s and his entire frame was trembling…but for a different reason, this time. He felt the air caught in his chest as if his body were too small to contain everything he was feeling. Bethany and the elf must have obeyed—it seemed, a part of him noted in detachment, that everyone obeyed Hawke without more than a token protest—but.

_But._

He’d be damned if he’d noticed.

Hawke reached up with his other hand, wrapping a broad palm along the back of Anders’ neck. The touch was intimate, though not sexual (and what was _wrong_ with him that part of him wished it was?), grounding him more strongly than Anders’ own flesh. His eyes were bright in the dim. Long strands of black hair escaped his queue to fall into his hard face.

Anders drew in a shuddery breath and let it out on a sigh.

“Well?” Hawke murmured. His rough voice had dropped low; it felt, weirdly, like a caress. “What did you have to say?”


	6. Chapter 6

Anders had never had much trouble finding words to fill life’s awkward silences. It was a gift that hadn’t always been appreciated, both in the Circle and amongst his fellow Wardens, but it had always been just as much a part of him as electricity spells and healing. It was who he was: he approached the world with a glib running commentary and other opinions be damned.

And there _were_ other opinions, no matter where he found himself. He was distracting and disrespectful, the senior enchanters used to say. He was trouble through and through, the Templars claimed. He was asking for a fist in the mouth, Nate insisted, shifting his unstrung bow over his shoulder as if fighting the urge to _use_ it.

He’d been a talkative child and a chatty adolescent and an irrepressible adult. Humor, wielded correctly, could be just as sharp as any blade. It was his own form of civil disobedience, his weapon of choice when literal weapons weren’t necessary or available…and it wasn’t until now, staring up into Hawke’s inscrutable face, that he realized just how much his merging with Justice had changed that part of him.

The silence hanging between them was _deafening_ , and no matter how hard he strained for them, words would not come.

Anders wet his lips and fought not to shiver. Hawke’s big ( _huge_ ) hands were on him, one gripping his elbow, the other cupping the back of his skull. It was a bizarrely delicate touch—not tender: that would have been ridiculous when they barely knew each other; he needed to stop thinking that way—but gentle. _Kind_ , though that wouldn’t have been a word he’d have used to describe Garrett Hawke just a few hours ago.

Understanding, Anders thought, staring up into his harsh, handsome face. As if Hawke knew a thing or two about loss.

He shivered, closing his eyes when Hawke brushed his thumb down the curve of his skull and pressed into the knot of muscle at the base. Waves of pleasure radiated from the touch, spreading through his limbs. He could feel his legs _trembling_ in response, knees knocking uselessly together, and Maker, it was unfair that he could be so easily unmade by one strange man’s touch. He wet his lips again, struggling to find something, anything, to say as the silence dragged on between them, filled only by his increasingly harsh breathing.

Hawke’s hands were…really incredibly strong, kneading away the tension in his neck as he waited with a patience Anders hadn’t been aware he even _had_ , and oh, oh void, he really needed to take a step back before he started arching and purring like a big cat.

Before he started rubbing himself against the sturdy breadth of Hawke’s chest and _where was Justice_ clamoring in his skull like an affronted maiden aunt when he needed him?

“That, ah, thank you,” Anders finally managed, voice a low croak. He turned his face, trying to pull away without being too obvious about it. He felt flushed and disoriented, skin too tight for his body— _aroused_ and mortified in equal parts. What kind of send-off was this for Karl?

He shivered again as Hawke dropped his hands and fought not to sway into his heat.

“What you did for me was… That is, I appreciate it.” He could manage to be polite at least, even if he had to keep his eyes ticked just to the left of Hawke; looking at him right now just wasn’t an option. “I would have been caught for sure if I had gone alone.”

Hawke was studying him intently. Anders could just see him out of the corners of his eyes, head tilted as he watched him like a…well, like a hawk, and suddenly he couldn’t get Varric’s ridiculous story from earlier out of his mind. 

_You won’t find this bird of prey such an easy mark_.

And what had Varric called him? A poor, bedraggled sparrow? He felt it, now. Or maybe a field mouse, or… Or, right, talking.

“And I realize I barely know you, but I believe you did what you could, and if we had come earlier—if I had acted faster; if I had known to—I, I do believe you out of anyone would have been able to save him, and…”

Anders trailed off weakly, thinking, _Well, that was awkward_.

But heartfelt, all the same, he realized. He _did_ believe, deep to his core, that if anyone could have saved Karl, it would have been Hawke. Hawke was like some kind of hero out of a story—and not just the ones Varric seemed set on creating around him. A _true_ fable, like the ones he’d heard as a child in the Anderfels. Strangely, it made him long to be part of whatever story the universe was set on telling.

He was so deep in his own thoughts, awkward silence growing heavy around them, that Anders startled when Hawke snagged his elbow again. He looked up, flushed, and met lyrium-blue eyes. “What,” Anders began.

“This way.” Hawke tugged him firmly away from the main infirmary door, to a boarded-up area at its immediate right. Splintered wood had been crossed over an old opening leading only Maker knew where. As far as Anders knew, not even the urchins disturbed that particular pit of Darktown; from the whispers, it had something to do with slavers.

But Hawke was letting him go and prying back boards, and Anders noticed with a start how easily they came away, making just enough space for even Hawke to push through. He glanced at the other man, confused, but Hawke just gestured for him to slip inside.

And…well, he supposed he was going to have to just get used to the kneejerk impulse to follow that man’s commands.

He ducked under a loose board and slipped inside the filthy tunnel, waiting for Hawke to follow. Anders clenched and unclenched his hands, feeling naked and exposed without his staff. It was one thing to go rushing off into Darktown unarmed—he had friends in all the filthiest places of the undercity and knew he’d have more than his fair share of protection if it came to that—but it was another thing entirely to step willingly into a slaver’s den without the focusing effect of his staff. He watched as Hawke replaced the boards, sealing them in together, and tried to think of a reasonable protest that wouldn’t raise the other man’s temper.

It was just a hunch, but Anders was fairly certain Hawke didn’t like to have his will questioned.

“Is this…entirely safe?” Anders finally settled on, falling in step with Hawke as the big warrior moved past. Anders scanned the dim fitfully, skin beginning to crawl. There were probably traps down here; there almost _had_ to be traps, right?

Hawke stopped at a heavy door and pulled a cord from around his neck. The string was red—Anders hadn’t been able to help but notice it earlier—and a key, a ring, and wooden chit dangled from the end. He shook out the key and slipped it into the lock. Tumblers turned loudly. “We came through not too long ago,” Hawke said. He pushed open the door; it gave a shriek of protest, but no clouds of green gas filled the narrow hall and no flames licked across the threshold.

“Weren’t there slavers here?” Anders asked, crossing the threshold. They were in a cellar; one of the estates above? He thought it must be. How strange that there had been an entrance to one of those hated Hightown homes just steps away from the door to his clinic. “That’s what people claimed, at least.”

“There were.” Hawke closed the door behind them. The key turning in the lock—locking them in together, _alone_ —made Anders shiver in mingled pleasure and dread. “I killed them all.”

He turned at that, startled and yet…not. “Oh,” Anders said, blinking up at Hawke. “No, of course you did.” He paused as Hawke moved past him to stacks of tarp-covered boxes. “…why did you kill them all?”

Hawke pulled up the end of the tarp, then let it drop. He pressed his hand against the wide, flat surface created by a row of boxes as if testing their strength—then, clearly satisfied, he unstrapped his sword and set it aside, moving to take a seat. The wood groaned in protest under his massive bulk, but held.

Anders hesitated, then slowly moved forward. There was a torch affixed to the wall near the door leading further into the house; he paused to pass a flame from his palm to its tip, casting the stone room in a soft glow. Whatever Hawke intended, it seemed safest, easiest, not to face it in the dark.

He cleared his throat, then moved to claim a perch on another crate, turned toward Hawke though not looking at him yet. It was easier, he found, to space that out. Otherwise he’d find himself staring again like some sort of lackwit.

“This estate used to belong to my mother.”

He’d been expecting anything from a stint as a mercenary to a favor for a friend to a simple they _looked at me weird and I’m kind of terrifying_. Anders hadn’t expected _that_. “But I thought you were Ferelden.”

Hawke glanced at him, dark brows quirked; Anders flushed and looked down at his hands. It was deeply unfair the way a single glance could leave his wits scrambling. “I am. Mother was born here, though, to the Amells. She ran away with Father when she was young. Father was an apostate.”

That…explained a great deal. “So your opinion on the Circle,” Anders began slowly, not daring to look up.

“It should be crushed into dust.”

He shivered at the harsh tone, the harsher words, but warmth was unfolding deep inside him, too. It was rare to come across a non-mage who felt as strongly—as _violently_ —as he did about the Circle. Even men who had lost family members to it mouthed the Chantry’s teachings as if they feared some sort of divine retribution for questioning the wisdom of Andraste. “I see,” he murmured.

“We moved a great deal, when we were young—especially when Bethany began showing her abilities. Mother used to tell us about Kirkwall, but this place was never an option. The Templars are too strong here. Even with the Amell money and name, there would be no guarantee that Father and Bethany would be safe.” He laughed, leaning back against the cold stone; the sound of that laugh, unexpected and _rich_ , made Anders’ body heat in pleasure. “And believe it or not, there was a time when I wasn’t exactly much of a match for a Templar; I was maybe half as tall as my sword.”

“Lies,” Anders said, looking up to meet Hawke’s eyes, smiling warmly. The mental picture that painted—of a young, scrawny Hawke with skinned knees and a belligerent attitude his muscles hadn’t yet grown into—was unexpectedly charming. “So the four of you traveled, escaping the ire of the mage-hunters?”

Hawke paused, brows puckering. “Five,” he said. He slipped a finger in to the red string and pulled it from his shirt again, catching the bit of wood between his fingers. Anders leaned closer, curious, realizing it was a soldier’s ration card. A _C_ had been carved into the top, looping and elegant. “Bethany had a twin, Carver. He died on the road to Kirkwall a little over a year ago.”

“Oh,” Anders said. He fought the urge to reach out to place his hand over Hawke’s. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was his own fault.” Hawke shoved the charms back under his shirt, expression darkening. “He knew better than to try to take on an ogre alone; he should have waited for me. He was an idiot and he paid the price for it.” His eyes didn’t match the cruel bluntness of his words, however. In them, Anders could see unexpected depths he…honestly wasn’t sure he was prepared to face. “Mother doesn’t agree, but she can blame me if that’s what she needs. Bethany at least is smarter than that.”

He had no idea what to say to that; with a few words, Hawke had painted a bleaker, more painful home life than Anders would have ever dreamed for him. “I— Yes. Well. She loves you very much,” he finally settled on. “It’s easy enough to see.”

Hawke leaned his head back against the wall, tipping his chin so he was looking at Anders—practically pinning him in place. “You could tell all that from having your hand up her skirt?” he demanded.

Anders froze, panicked. “Oh Maker, we’re _talking_ about that?”

Hawke’s glower was almost enough to flay the skin off his bones, and Anders mentally cast about for a way to protect himself; suddenly the locked door was making a great deal of sense, and oh _Maker_ if Hawke came after him, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep himself all in one piece, and it was just _one kiss_ that he hadn’t truly meant, and…and then the corners of Hawke’s eyes crinkled and he was _laughing_ again.

Anders stared as Hawke’s shoulders shook. He had the best kind of laugh, low and rich and completely unselfconscious. “You are an _ass_ ,” Anders said, surprised into his own breathless laugh. “Do you realize you just frightened ten years off of me? And considering I’m a _Warden_ , I don’t exactly have the time to give.”

A dimple actually flashed at the corner of the warrior’s mouth, incongruous and somehow _sweet_. “You’ll survive,” Hawke said, still chuckling. “You may as well get used to my tempers now. I’m not a very easy person to be around.”

“And somehow I still like being around you,” Anders retorted without thinking.

 _That_ was enough to bring Hawke up short. He straightened to look at him— _really_ look at him, blue eyes studying Anders’ face thoughtfully—before he nodded. “Okay,” Hawke said. “Fair enough. Do you have any questions about any of the others?” he added, changing the subject deftly away from Anders’ awkward flirtation. “Fenris you’ll want to be careful around. He doesn’t like mages, though he knows better to say anything about it in my hearing. He has his reasons, and if I catch you baiting him about them, I will smash your heads together until you both see sense.”

Anders made a silent vow to never bait Fenris no matter the provocation. “Understood. And the Dalish?”

“Merrill was a second to the Keeper staying up on Sundermount. She’s a blood mage.” Anders stiffened. “She won’t use it in our presence, and if she calls on a demon, she knows I will kill it. It is an uneasy peace, but it works for now.”

“The redheaded woman had a Templar shield,” Anders began.

Hawke cut him off. “It belonged to her husband. We met them on the road to Kirkwall; he did not make it. And no, I did not kill him.” Hawke flicked a gaze toward him. “That’s usually the next question I get, so I thought I may as well cut you off before you got there.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Anders wondered. He spread his hands over his knees, palms up. “I appreciate it—I really do—but it seems, well. Like a bit of odd timing.” What with Karl, and Justice, and the explanation Anders knew _he_ would have to make very soon. “While we’re on the subject, why is my infirmary hosting a party?”

The crates groaned in protest as Hawke gracefully—astonishingly graceful, actually, for a man his size—rose to his feet. Long strands of black hair fell about his face, slipping from the increasingly loose leather holding back his queue. “You lost someone,” Hawke said simply. “When you lose someone, others should come in to fill in the gaps until it doesn’t hurt quite as bad. Varric, Aveline, Bethany, Fenris, Isabella, Merrill—they’re good people. They’ll help you through, so the loss doesn’t fester and scar over this time.”

It felt as if Hawke had reached into his chest with those strong, capable hands and cracked open Anders’ chest. It felt all at once as if he were holding his trembling heart cupped between his palms. Anders watched as Hawke moved closer, pulse beating a rapid staccato in his throat. 

_So the loss doesn’t fester and scar over this time_. It had been…a very long time since someone had cared to look hard enough at him in order to see those faded wounds.

“And the rest?” Anders murmured, meaning the story of Hawke’s family.

Hawke leaned in, _reaching_ for him, and everything in Anders leaned into the touch, hungry for it. Even Justice pressed closer, like they were a touch-starved mabari imprinting on its new master for the first time. A calloused thumb brushed over Ander’s skin as Hawke tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “I told you all the rest so you’d understand I know what I’m talking about,” he said, eyes locked on Anders’. He was close. Close enough to kiss.

 _Please_ , Anders found himself thinking, heart thrumming high in his throat. _Please please please_.

Hawke straightened. “Are you ready to join up with the party now?”

Anders fought the kneejerk reaction to reach for him; Maker, it was so strong his fingers actually _twitched_ with the desire. “I,” he began, slowly sliding off the crates and standing. “Didn’t you want to ask about…what happened at the Chantry?”

To ask about _Justice_.

He grabbed for his sword, strapping it on again with quick, unexpectedly graceful movements. Anders couldn’t help but watch, eyes drawn down to the easy dexterity. His body thrummed with awareness, and he couldn’t help but imagine those big hands (huge, scarred, rough with callouses) moving over his skin. _Gripping_ his hips tight as he shoved him back against the cold stone wall and caught his mouth in a possessive kiss.

Hawke would fuck the way he did everything else, Anders thought breathlessly. Controlling everything around him, bending Anders to his will—making him _beg_ for it.

Maker, but how he would love to beg for it.

 _I still blame you for this, Justice,_ Anders thought. _All of it_. The spirit was echoingly silent in his head.

“I will,” Hawke was saying, “but later will do just as well. You’re not going anywhere.”

“No,” Anders said immediately. “No, I’m not going anywhere.”

Hawke glanced up at that, lips curved into a faint smile; in that moment, Anders would have agreed to _anything_. He was hard (Maker, so hard) and his heart was pounding in his throat and wrists and he’d never met anyone like Hawke before. He’d never wanted to bare his throat to _anyone_ like this. It was maddening, and terrifying, an a little exhilarating. “I’m going with you into the Deep Roads, aren’t I?” Anders said on a moan, half despairing and half… Well, half accepting it already. Half making _plans_ ; if Hawke wanted him, he would be there. There was no question of that.

“You’re coming with me into the Deep Roads,” Hawke agreed.

“Do you _always_ get what you want?” Anders said on a breathless laugh, watching Hawke move to unlock the cellar door; muscles bunched and released beneath his dark underarmor. Anders’ mouth went _dry_.

And then Hawke glanced over his shoulder, dark brows arching, torchlight catching on the sharp lines of his features and throwing them into stark relief. “Yes,” he said simply, turning the tumblers and pulling the door open. “After you.”

Anders didn’t think to question it; he was already moving, body and heart and mind thrumming with awareness and pleasure and _belonging_.


	7. Chapter 7

In the end, there were certain benefits to being a member of Hawke’s strange little menagerie.

For starters, Anders’ Darktown clinic had never been more secure. Before, he’d had to rely on the starving and half-desperate Fereldan refugees to help guard against Templars. It had been a weak network at best, designed to give him just enough forewarning to make his escape if necessary. Now, there were _actual guards_ stationed throughout his usual paths to and from his clinic door. The first time Anders spotted a Red Iron mercenary leaning against the worn rail and trimming his nails with a wickedly sharp knife, he’d frozen, heart pounding rabbit-fast in his throat. But the man had simply looked up and offered a black-toothed smirk before going back to his work. Now—Maker defend him—Anders was actually _used_ to having assassins and sellswords prowling around. 

He’d gotten into the habit of bringing them tea.

Another stark change was the sudden influx of medical supplies. Anders had no idea whose arm Hawke had twisted to make _that_ miracle happen, but he wasn’t about to complain. Crates arrived every two weeks at first, and then once a week when it became clear how quickly the supplies disappeared now that they were readily available. He finally had enough elfroot stocked to allow him to leave the clinic in the hands of his volunteers for several hours at a time—sometimes more, if Hawke needed him to trek up Sundermount or into the Bone Pit.

(And how, _how_ had it become such a natural part of his life to traipse cheerfully into danger on a regular basis, fighting slavers and drakes and Tal-Vashoth like it was something rational men did with their free time?)

The steady supply of lyrium was another unexpected bonus. Anders tried to ration it out carefully, unwilling to rely on the potion when a few hours would naturally restore his mana, but there was more than one instance where the growing stockpile had saved their lives. It had saved Fenris’s life, certainly, when Anders had been forced to pivot from throwing fireballs at giant spiders to healing the surly elf’s crushed ribcage—and a great pile of thanks he’d gotten for that, too.

And then, there was this. He really couldn’t forget this, even though he desperately wished he could.

“Hold _still_ , Bela.”

“But I’m _bored_ ,” Isabela whined, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. Her legs were spread invitingly wide as Anders inspected the healing gash high on her bare inner thigh. He gently palpated the bruised skin surrounding the wound, noting the way the edges had faded into a mottled yellow, like a tortoiseshell. “Anders, I’m _bored_.”

“Hm,” he replied. He slid a hand down her thigh, pointedly ignoring the playful leers Isabela kept shooting him. That was _another_ unexpected side effect of falling in with Garrett Hawke. It was strange how easy celibacy became when there was one person taking up all room for rational (or irrational) thought. “Bela, please stop wriggling,” Anders added, looking up with an exasperated frown.

She waggled dark brows. “Am I distracting you?”

“ _Yes_.” Anders caught her knee when she would have hooked a leg around his waist. “Come on, I’m almost done.” He pushed her thighs wide again and refocused on the angry red line bisecting warm skin. “You know,” he added thoughtfully, “you really should have let me heal this; you’re going to scar.”

Isabela sprawled back on the examination table, elbows catching her weight, head tipped so her dark hair spilled over the edge. Her free leg hooked defiantly over his shoulder, heel digging into the ridge of his spine. “Scars are sexy,” she said.

“Maker knows how you got it in the first place. Have you maybe considered wearing pants?”

She just snorted and arched her hips up to give him a better view. Anders chuffed a laugh, shaking his head, and reached for the elfroot. The clay jar was cool against his palm, herby scent almost strong enough to overwhelm the steady stench of Darktown. Outside the high windows, he could hear the slap of waves against the pylons; the clinic roof groaned above their heads, bearing down under the weight of all of Kirkwall. 

There was a scuff of leather at the door, followed by a long, low whistle. “Why, Blondie, I leave you two alone for _five minutes_ …”

Isabela twisted to look, and Anders caught her hip to keep her from pulling completely away. He was _almost finished_. “You took your sweet time,” she said by way of greeting. “Please tell me you have something planned for tonight.”

“Just the usual: cards, swill, and aimless debauchery.” Varric sauntered in, idly scanning the clinic in that bright-eyed, all-seeing way he had before refocusing on the two of them. His smirk deepened. “But it looks like the two of you got a head start on the festivities: whatever would our fearless leader think?”

Anders gave Varric a quick once-over, but the dwarf didn’t _look_ injured. “If you’re here because of itchy privates, _please_ don’t give me the details. There are salves over there.” He jerked his chin toward a low shelf, catching Isabela about the hips when she would have rolled away. “Whoa, Bela, we’re not quite done here.”

“Don’t worry, Blondie—I’m just here to invite you to sit in on a few rounds of Wicked Grace. You haven’t been up to the Hanged Man in almost a week. I’m not going to win all your coin if you keep it tucked away in your straw matting.”

He snorted, carefully soothing the salve over Isabela’s wound. He could feel the cool tingle of the elfroot against his calloused fingertips; Isabela shivered as he pulled back. “ _There_ ,” Anders said, capping the salve and sliding it back onto its shelf. “Now you’re free to go, you impossible woman.” He wiped his fingers on a mostly-clean cloth. “As for Wicked Grace…”

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t need the faint stirrings of Justice to tell him that—there were mages who had nothing and no one trapped in the foul prison of the Gallows. There was injustice all around him. He was living in a cesspit of bigotry and discrimination fed by a religion that systematically disenfranchised those born with the Maker’s own gift, and there was no _time_ to sleep or eat or drink or make bloody merry with something so simple as _friends_ when lives were depending on him. He should continue to build his fledgling mage underground. He should work on a draft of his manifesto. He should listen to Justice and—

“Hawke will be there.”

—and all at once, Justice went suspiciously silent.

“…oh?” Anders said, as nonchalant as he could manage.

Isabela laughed and hopped down from the table, linking one of her arms in his. “Come on, Anders,” she said, giving him a gentle squeeze. There was a kindness behind her eyes often hidden by her ribald jokes and piratical swagger; her wry smile was almost _fond_. “Your great and terrible burden will be here waiting for you after a few hands of cards.”

Varric fell in on his other side, smoothly locking up behind them before Anders could think to protest—the two of them had this down to an art. “Rivaini’s right, Blondie. The way you keep your nose to the grindstone, it’s a wonder it’s as big as it is. _Speaking_ of big, did I ever tell you…”

He didn’t need to listen to know where this story was going—and yet, strangely enough, he _wanted_ to. Not only that, but there wasn’t a whisper of protest inside his blood and bones; Justice had fled as he always seemed to do at the mere mention of Hawke, lulled into quintessence by the surge of giddy excitement blooming in Anders’ chest. It was as if a stone had been lifted from around his neck. It was as if he’d been holding his breath for hours and was only now able to suck in a deep lungful. It was as if he was that irresponsible youth again, just for a little while, flustered at the thought of seeing the man he… Well.

Anyway.

And somehow, between one step and another, Anders’ shoulders began to relax and he grinned in spite of himself, letting his unlikely friends sweep him up in their filthy back-and-forth…and back into a closer echo of the man he used to be. All thanks to a warrior who had the temper of a feral mabari and an unexpected gentleness that set Anders’ heart to pounding.

 _Hawke_ , he thought, feeling unexpected color heat his cheeks. Then, softer, quieter, almost a whisper to himself: _Garrett_. The name alone was enough to make his heart lurch in his chest.

Maker, he had it bad.

**

“I shit you not,” Varric said with a laugh, throwing down his cards, “there I was, naked as the day my mother spit me out—”

“Charming image, Varric; thank you,” Anders muttered.

“—practically soaked in the stuff while the merchants just looked on, torn between confusion, alarm, and admiration. And, let’s face it,” he added with a broad wink toward Merrill, “uncontrollable lust.”

Aveline—propped against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her broad armor—snorted and looked away. Merrill just leaned in, hands clasped and eyes huge as she hung on Varric’s every word. The Hanged Man was bursting with energy, shouts of laughter and snatches of song drifting up from the main bar. Tucked in the relative comfort of Varric’s suit, Hawke’s whole bloody menagerie was ringed about the low table, drinks at their elbows and cards in their hands. Even the choirboy, Sebastian Vael, had deigned to join them from on high. He looked blasted uncomfortable, too, pristine white armor gleaming in the fitful pull of candlelight.

Everyone had come out at Varric’s summons—everyone, that is, except Hawke himself. Even Bethany was with them, flushed and laughing as she sat next to the once-priest, fanning herself with her cards. The atmosphere was convivial, but Anders couldn’t help but feel a little…lost. He cast quick glances toward the open door more times than he cared to admit, shoulders growing tighter and tighter as time ticked by.

Where was Hawke?

Maker, was he really so pathetic that he was sulking over the man’s absence?

…yes, void take him. Yes, he was.

Anders tossed down his cards and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with a sigh, feeling increasingly cross. Justice had begun to stir again, the flicker of annoyance building at the base of his skull as round after round of bad ale was passed around the low table and filthy jokes were bandied back and forth. He didn’t want to feel so out of place stuck in the middle of it; he didn’t want to think of the hard cot waiting for him, the reams of notes that would someday be his manifesto, the sheer backbreaking _work_ that none of his unlikely friends knew the slightest thing about.

 _That is unfair_ , he told himself, and yet his shoulders hunched forward as the feeling grew. These were, against all odds, his friends—and yet something about their merriment was starting to set his teeth on edge, reminding him of the path he hadn’t taken, the life he’d cut off at the knees. If there was no Justice, would he be laughing and flirting with them? Would he stay out carousing until the sun kissed the sky, sodden with drink and singing his way to sleep?

There was more to them than that—he _knew_ that—and yet he couldn’t rein in the frustrated itch of the spirit he’d folded into himself. His hands actually trembled where they were folded on the table and his stomach clenched against the few sips of ale he’d managed. He should go. He knew he should. Any moment now, Varric or Aveline would notice his darkening mood. Isabel was already casting him occasional glances, brows arching; for Maker’s sake, he was starting to outbrood _Fenris_. _Just go home_ , Anders told himself, rubbing harder at his brow, cards folded face-down on the table in front of him. The unfocused tenor of their laughter washed over him, through him. His head was beginning to ache in a way he knew from experience no healing spell could conquer. _Just give in and go home and…regroup. It wasn’t meant to be, tonight. Maybe it’s even better this way. Maybe—_

All at once, the air was electric.

Anders stiffened in his seat, straightening like a shot, fists clenching. He could feel the rush of gooseflesh sweep up his arms, fine blond hairs standing up even before the first heavy footfall. He couldn’t say how he knew Hawke was near, but he did, Maker take him he did, and the breath was knocked out of him in a near-painful lurch. Bethany cast him a curious look, and Fenris outright _sneered_ , but then Aveline was straightening with a,

“Ho there, Hawke,”

and the tenor of the entire party turned on its head.

Garrett Hawke had to duck to step into the room, altogether too big and too…too _Hawke_ not to utterly dominate everything about him. He’d stripped down to commons, Anders couldn’t help but notice, sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and badly healed scars. He still carried his massive sword, but he was quick to unstrap it and hand it off to Aveline with a crooked grin that made Anders’ stomach twist in uncomfortable pleasure.

“Ho there, Aveline. The night’s damned quiet.”

“Then my guard must be doing their jobs,” she retorted tartly, but her lips curved as she set his blade in its usual corner. It was odd, watching the two of them together—there was a fraternity there, though Hawke didn’t treat Aveline anything at all like his actual little sister, who he had a tendency to loom and snarl protectively over like a bad-tempered mabari.

He moved around the table to plant a kiss to the crown of Bethany’s head, tugging a curl when she twisted to grin up at him. Across from Anders, Sebastian was sitting up even straighter and Fenris— _Fenris_ —was offering an almost-smile, head tipped as he watched the warrior.

They were all watching Hawke, Anders realized with a familiar sinking sensation. They were all wanting him after their own fashion. A beautiful pirate, a clever dwarf, a vicious elf, a _prince_ , a captain of the guard, and a Dalish mage—how could a bedraggled former Warden ever hope to shine brighter than those constellations?

And yet just as he was beginning to relax back in his seat, disappointment and annoyed self-recrimination echoing about his skull (because this wasn’t some _game_ he was playing for Hawke’s attention; what did it matter if he was the least of his friends so long as he truly could call a man like Garrett _friend_?), Hawke looked up from his low conversation with Varric and met his eyes.

They caught.

Held.

And he was pinned where he was, immolating from the inside out.

Anders fought an immediate flush, skin shivering in prickling awareness. Hawke arched a dark brow but didn’t look away; his eyes on Anders were as heavy as a touch, pinning him in place, and ah, Maker, he felt so bloody hot beneath his skin. His breath caught and that weighted gaze was almost— _almost_ —like a physical caress. Everything he had been feeling before this moment burned away in a haze of _want_.

How, _how_ could Hawke do this to him?

He wet his lips, feeling his cheeks grow even hotter as Hawke dropped a hand on Varric’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. He moved around the head of the table, graceful despite his massive bulk, eyes never leaving Anders’ face. Anders felt a sudden impulse to bolt away, rabbit-scared, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, move. His heart began to hammer faster and faster the closer Hawke came, and it was _ridiculous_ that the man could do this to him. They had known each other for a matter of weeks; he had healed his wounds and followed him into slaver caverns and fought at his side, yes, but he’d done the same with the Wardens. He’d followed great women and men before.

This. Hawke. _Everything_ felt different now. He felt different.

Maker, what madness.

He wanted to drop to his belly and _beg_. All from just one look. If Hawke ever did deign to touch him, he might well truly lose his mind.

“Bela,” Hawke said, eyes on Anders’ face, “move.”

The chair scraped immediately as Isabela slid back. When she stood, she broke their line of sight, and it was as if strings binding Anders to the rafters had been cut. He lurched forward into a slump, breathless and _hard_ , entire body quaking in anticipation of bloody Hawke’s bloody proximity. Across the table, Fenris smirked, but Anders didn’t have the strength for a proper glare. Justice was an echoing hollow in his skull and wanton heat was pooling in his gut as Hawke slid into Isabela’s vacated seat—next to him; out of everyone, he’d chosen to sit next to _him_ —and shot him a single glance.

 _You know,_ Anders thought, huffing out a breathless laugh. _You know exactly what you do to the lot of us. To me._

Hawke’s lips curved into a crooked grin, as if he were reading Anders’ thoughts, before he turned his attention back to the dwarf. “So, Varric,” he said, settling back comfortably. “We’re very nearly at fifty gold. Is your brother going to keep his word?”

Varric shuffled the cards with quick, dexterous fingers, fanning them wide before snapping them together again. “If Bartrand knows what’s good for him—and a good half the time, he actually manages to—he will,” he said. “But if he tries to weasel out, I’m sure we can persuade him otherwise. Have you put any thought into who you’re taking with you?”

 _Me_ , Anders thought, followed immediately by: _Knickerweasles, do I have to be so bloody enthusiastic about the blighted Deep Roads?_ He’d sworn to himself when he’d fled the Wardens that he’d never go back into the belly of the earth. It was astonishing how Hawke had managed to stir his brains so thoroughly, just by being… _Hawke_. Big and powerful and glowering and unexpectedly sweet in quick, breathless flashes that left Anders weak in the knees. He’d stormed in and uprighted his world and there was nothing Anders could do but breathe in the scent of him and try not to let his emotions show on his face.

They all likely knew just how far gone he was, but Anders couldn’t, wouldn’t, let Hawke crack him the rest of the way open to see the way his heart raced at just the _thought_ of him now. How he… _pined_ like an Orlesian in one of Varric’s stories.

Weeks. _Weeks_! And he was _pining_ , Maker take his soul. What void trouble would he be in after months by this man’s side? He couldn’t dare to say, and yet he desperately hoped to find out.

“I am still deciding,” Hawke finally murmured, voice a low rasp. Anders flushed and looked away to hide a ridiculous flash of disappointment, shifting to put some distance between them. He should go back to his clinic; coming tonight had been a mistake. He clearly wasn’t thinking properly if he was _disappointed_ not to be named to the expedition. He was going, quite obviously, mad. He shifted in his chair, carefully drawing his cards together in preparation. He’d seen Hawke for the night—now he could make a strategic retreat and fight not to think of the big warrior as he lay wakeful in his cot.

“Well,” Anders said, beginning to rise, “I should—”

And then, under the meager protection of the low table, Hawke’s huge hand moved to grip high on Anders’ thigh and _shoved_ him back down.

Anders straightened like a shot, body immediately throwing sparks. He could feel the buzz of his magic responding, could feel— _Maker, everything_ waking inside him in hot, unfurling pinwheels. He sucked in a breath and bit the inside of his mouth, flushing as Hawke’s grip tightened, going _hard_. So blessedly, blessedly hard, ah _fuck._

His hips jerked up once, cock pressed tight against the dingy grey of his robes, and he couldn’t— He couldn’t _breathe_ and—

And _Hawke’s hand was on him_. Hawke was _keeping him pinned in place._

He dared a quick glance, breath coming fast (panting from just a single rough touch, fighting not to rut up, cock straining and painful, ah _fuck_ ) and uneven. Hawke wasn’t looking at him, was still talking to Varric about…something, he didn’t know, words were all blending together in a brilliant tapestry, and it was the best and worst sensation of his life. It was torture. It wasn’t nearly enough.

A big hand, grip tight, pinning him to his chair. Keeping him close.

Close to _Hawke._

Anders closed his eyes and tipped his head back, fighting to master himself while all around him his friends laughed and joked and played their game—unaware of the way one simple touch had set him to unravel.


	8. Chapter 8

Anders was getting to a point where healing spells were as natural as breathing. More natural, maybe—every time he saw one of his friends go down, the air was knocked clean out of him.

Take now, for instance.

“Hawke, to your left!” he called, pivoting to send a modest fireball crashing amongst the drakes. They had swarmed out of the craggy rock, hissing and baring fangs no less terrifyingly sharp for being so small. Anders had nearly lost an arm trying to get his staff between him and one of the bastards; Hawke was busy breaking down _three_ of them, the fourth closing in, tail lashing as he—

“To your left; Hawke, to your—” Anders lunged back just in time to avoid a snapping blow, sucking in a breath. Some distance away, down the rickety steps, Aveline was bellowing a battle cry. Lightning forked from Bethany’s spell, making the air crackle and spark. Varric cursed.

And Hawke, pinned by the bulk of the hoard, wasn’t turning to his left. 

Anders watched in dawning horror as the unnoticed drake reared back and struck viciously fast, _hard_ , fangs rending dark armor and ripping through leather joinings as if they were water. There was the sickening sound of tearing flesh, of _muscles_. The choked noise Hawke made echoed through Anders like a thunderclap—torn and _hurt_ and terrifying. He watched in horror as Hawke stumbled forward, pitching toward the trio of waiting drakes and down down down to the cold stone floor as they, _Maker_ , swarmed over him in a hissing, slithering mass, striking again and again with wickedly sharp teeth. Metal screamed and flesh tore and all at once Hawke’s voice dropped into terrible silence.

It happened so fast Anders didn’t have time to do more than gape. He couldn’t breathe; his lungs felt shriveled and dried, and he parried away the advances of his own attacker, too stunned to comprehend exactly what he was witnessing.

Hawke. Big, terrifying, capable, _brutal_ Hawke stumbling. Hawke disappearing under a wall of membranous wings and wickedly curved claws. Hawke going down, and blood spattering green scale in messy, jagged spurts.

Flesh, hanging in stringy gristle from a drake’s maw.

 _That_ was what brought Anders back. _That_ was what send Justice ripping through his skin in a sudden explosion of terror.

“ _GARRETT!_ ” he shouted, the full force of the Fade behind his booming voice. He was just enough himself to be aware of terror, of fury, as he flung out his staff. The drakes—all five of them—went slamming in all directions, spattering against the cavern walls in gory red-brown streaks before tumbling in a chorus of wet sighs to the floor. Anders stumbled, blue healing energy flaring solar-bright as he reached for the other man, dropping heedlessly to his knees. His fingers slipped through streaks of gore and he hooked his fingers into the black cuirass, pulling Hawke, pulling _Garrett_ , out of his lifeless ( _no no no no no_ ) slump.

There was blood on his handsome face, matted black hair falling across his brow. Those impossible blue eyes were rolled back, cracked lips parted. Trapped in the massive metal cocoon of his armor, there was no immediate way to know if he was still breathing.

Maker, he had to be breathing. It couldn’t end so quickly, so unexpectedly, as this. He hadn’t even— They hadn’t— There hadn’t been _time_ to— He’d never even—

“Garrett, no, come on, no,” Anders murmured, Justice fading to a frenetic hum in the back of his mind as he poured healing energy into the other man. He’d used so much of his mana already, but Anders didn’t hesitate to let it come spilling out of him in messy waves of undulating light, wild and frantic as an ululation. He’d crack himself open and bleed himself dry if he had to. He’d scour himself clean, digging at his last reserves of strength with trembling fingers like a child clawing at sand if it only meant… It he could…

Void take it; void take him; void take them _all_ , it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Come on,” Anders pleaded. “One mistake—is that what’s going to bring you down? Just one, just—one stupid mistake? Some big warrior you are. Some fucking hero: Garrett Hawke, felled by a swarm of miniature dragons. Please, please be breathing.”

The armor was torn and dented, jagged ends curling out where the dragons had ripped through metal. He could see flesh through the rips in Hawke’s underarmor; he could see _bone_.

_Oh, Andraste, please, please._

He closed his eyes and let the Fade come crashing through him. In that moment, if he could have managed it with Justice anxiously hovering in his mind, he would have made a deal with anyone, anything, just to be _certain_ he could heal the wounds in time. Time. There was no bloody _time._

Everything hung on a breathless precipice, and Anders waited to go tumbling down. Healing. Giving everything he had, because he was quickly realizing he’d be nothing without the man he… Without… Oh Maker take them _all_.

_Heal. Damn you._

He wasn’t sure how long passed as he spilled messily into the other man, ripping himself wide open and giving him everything he had to give. Each breath seemed to drag on for eternity, and it hurt deep to the core, as if he were scraping himself raw against the last jagged remains of his powers. But then, without warning— 

Calloused fingertips brushed his stubbled jaw. “That’s enough, Anders,” Garrett Hawke rasped.

Anders gasped, eyes flying open…though he didn’t end the healing spell. Blue light shone between them, catching in Hawke’s still-dazed eyes, deepening the blood flecking his face to a garish violet. Anders leaned in with a breathless, choking laugh, shoulders hunched around his ears as he pressed their faces close. He wanted to rest his forehead against Hawke’s more than anything. He wanted to kiss him.

 _I’ve fallen in love with the bastard,_ he thought, and that was almost as terrifying as Hawke stumbling insensate to the cavern floor.

“You are such an incredible asshole,” he said as fondly as he dared. Blue energy flickered around them like a lightning bug. On the edge of his awareness, Anders heard the scrape of sword meeting sheath and the whisk of blood-sodden robes against stone. Aveline and Bethany. Well, let them look. “ _Such_ an asshole; did you know that?”

Hawke’s dark brows drew together. “Anders,” he said. Then, when Anders didn’t stop (couldn’t stop; didn’t dare to stop) healing, he gripped his chin hard and yanked his face close, until they were sharing a breath. The sudden proximity was as intimate as a kiss. “You will stop. _Now._ ”

And Anders obeyed.

It was instinctual, effortless. He didn’t even _think_ about it before he was doing what he was told. That…was unnerving. That kneejerk response, that eagerness to listen and please—it was new and uncertain beneath his skin. No one but Hawke had ever managed to make him _want_ to listen to orders before.

He didn’t know what to make of it yet, so he tucked it away to consider later, too glad in this moment that there would _be_ a later for Garrett Hawke to let the shiver of pleasure he felt deep in his bones distract him from what really mattered. 

Anders wet his lips and slowly pulled back as Hawke sat up. He braced a palm against the torn and dented armor, letting the other man rest some of his massive bulk against him. “Careful,” Anders murmured, eyes scanning his face for signs of strain. The color was still stripped away beneath the streaks of gore, but his breathing sounded regular. “Just…be very, very careful.”

“Hypocrite,” Hawke murmured, turning his head to meet his eyes. Their faces were close enough that he could feel his breath. “You would have bled yourself dry.”

 _I would have done a lot more than that for you._ He couldn’t bring himself to say the words, but he could taste them on the tip of his tongue, on the air between them. Anders shivered and let his eyes drop to Hawke’s parted lips.

“You gave us quite a scare there, Hawke,” Varric said suddenly, dryly, from far too close. Anders startled, hands dropping away as he twisted; he’d _forgotten_ the others were even here. 

The dwarf smirked when their eyes met, as if he knew very well what had put that startled look on his face. Aveline just shook her head and began searching the drakes for useful parts. Bethany was digging into her bag and pulling out two bottles even as she crouched next to Anders, shoulder lightly bumping his in that gentle way she had. “Here you are, big brother,” she said, handing the elfroot potion to Hawke. “This’ll take care of anything Anders wasn’t able to heal. And _you_.” She pinned Anders with a hard look that was so unlike her—and so like her brother—that Anders actually lifted his palms in a warding gesture in response. “You drink this, and don’t ever let me see you scrape the bottom of your mana like that again. It’s foolish and dangerous, and we could have lost you _both_.”

Anders took the bottle she thrust into his hands, smelling the sharp-cold tang of lyrium. “The two of you sound shockingly alike sometimes,” he grumbled, screwing open the cap and taking a careful sip. He had to fight not to make a face—Andraste’s backside, but lyrium tasted foul. “I hadn’t realized I was hearing an echo.”

“We sound exactly like our father,” Hawke said with a bemused snort. “Though Bethany’s the one who inherited Mother’s guilt-inducing stare—I’m _drinking it_ , harpy.”

She sniffed. “Every last drop, the both of you,” Bethany said. She reached out to gently squeeze Anders’ knee before rummaging back in her bag, tugging out a strip of rolled linen and a canteen. Anders could have happily stayed where he was for hours yet, watching as Bethany wet the cloth and began to clean streaks of gore off her brother’s face—he could have taken the rag from her hands and done the task himself without a moment’s hesitation—but something about the way the Hawke siblings leaned toward each other as Bethany tended to her older brother made him feel like an interloper. This was a moment that wasn’t his to join.

So he stood on shaky legs, swallowing the dregs of the potion, and forced himself to walk away from the impossible man he ( _oh bloody void-taken balls_ ) loved.

Aveline glanced up when he joined her, little sickle blade already out and ready to pry off likely scales for sale in the market. She quirked a brow but didn’t say anything. Miraculously, the dwarf was silent too, patting Anders’ cheek before wandering off to poke through random crags and crannies—on the search for some hidden coin, no doubt. The way they looked at him made him wonder…did they know? Could they know? Could they have figured it out when he hadn’t?

Maker, he hoped not.

Anders threw himself into his work with a faint scowl, trying desperately to ignore the soft murmur of Bethany and Hawke’s voices. He focused on his work. He didn’t let his eyes stray. He thought he was doing a pretty good job of blocking everything and everyone out, but the moment armor began to squeal in protest, he was jerking his head up and around and watching as Hawke pulled himself to his feet.

It was like watching a mountain raise itself stone by stone. It was like witnessing a Qunari pull itself to its full height. Hawke towered over his little sister, dwarfing her utterly as he unfastened his ruined gauntlets and let the dented iron clatter to the ground. He’d pulled his dark hair back again, temples wet from Bethany’s ministrations. There were still drying streaks of blood on his cuirass, but his face at least was clean. “All right,” Hawke said, and all four of them were watching him now. “Let’s move out.”

Anders stood, slipping the last scale into his pouch, and moved to collect his staff. Hawke passed to join Aveline and Varric, walking without a sign that he’d been terrifyingly close to death just a half-hour before. Though…maybe there was a slight limp there. Yes, yes, Anders was sure Hawke was favoring his right leg the smallest bit, forcing himself to take long strides in order to hide his injury.

He could practically feel the healing energy thrumming beneath his skin, renewed by the lyrium and the passage of time. _Let me take care of you_ , he wanted to say, but Anders bit his tongue and let Hawke plow forward uninterrupted.

 _Later_ , he told himself. _If you dare…later._

He sighed and scratched at the rasp of his stubble, then turned to wind up the incline to snag his staff. Bethany was standing just a few paces away, however, her own staff strapped to her back. She offered Anders his with a slow, warm smile. “Anders,” Bethany said.

“Little Hawke,” Anders replied, reaching out to grasp the familiar wood. 

She didn’t let go right away, grip tightening about the shaft, eyes meeting his when his gaze flew up in surprise. Her little smile spread slow and sweet and impossibly wicked. “ _Anders_ ,” she said again.

“…Little Hawke,” he tried, but he knew what was coming.

“Someone’s developed a bit of a crush on Garrett, hasn’t he?” Bethany murmured. At Anders’ low noise, she laughed. “Don’t worry, they’re far enough ahead that they won’t hear us. Come on,” she added, tugging playfully at the end of his staff before letting go. “You have to tell me all the gossip. I’m _always_ the last to find these sorts of things out.”

Anders looked toward where the rest of their party was walking—yes, in fact, far enough ahead that they probably couldn’t hear them, so long as they kept their voices low. “There’s no gossip,” he murmured, strapping his staff to his back as they fell in together. “I promise,” Anders added at her low, scoffing noise. “There’s nothing to _find out._ Yes, perhaps I’m…infatuated.”

“That wasn’t the face of a man simply infatuated,” she pointed out.

He made a low, disgruntled noise, but there was really no use trying to deny it. He’d been bowled over by Hawke from the very first. Staring up (and up, and up, and up) at his furious face as Hawke towered over him at the Rose…later, pressed against the pillar of his clinic, scrabbling for the loose ends of his unraveling better sense… _later_ , sitting next to him on dusty crates and sharing shattered pieces of himself he’d kept locked up tight for years… There was something about Garrett Hawke that drew him from the beginning, as if he were caught in an undertow and didn’t have the strength—the _will_ —to swim free.

Even Justice responded to the big warrior’s presence. Body and soul and bloody spirit passenger and all, Anders had been marked from the moment their eyes met.

It was maddening. It should have been impossible. He _knew better_ than to fall in love. Love was a fairy story for mages; or, worse, it was a stick the Templars used to beat you insensate. There had been Karl, and there had been Surana, and that was the closest he’d ever allowed himself.

Until now. Until this madman who seemed more than content to throw himself into every danger that came his way.

“I am such a fool,” Anders murmured, scrubbing at his face.

Bethany dropped a soft hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Yes,” she agreed, and she laughed at the glare he shot her. “Well! I’m sorry, but anyone who thinks falling in love with Garrett is a good idea _is_ a fool. A wonderful, sweet, perfect fool who hopefully finds a way to tease Garrett into not being so very cross all the time. You’d be good for him, you know,” Bethany added with real kindness. “If he let himself drop his guard enough. There aren’t many who have the temperament to put up with Big Brother. You have to be…”

“Insane?”

“…forgiving,” she said instead. “He has a great many faults. He’s brutish and brooding and overprotective and violent and demanding and a real bear in the morning. He doesn’t like to be questioned and he hates not getting his own way. He’s more ogre than man, half the time.”

Oh Maker, it really wasn’t a good sign that the more _negative_ qualities Bethany listed, the more his stomach twisted up with _want_.

Bethany must have read the embarrassed squirm on his face. “…ew,” she said, then laughed and nudged his shoulder when Anders flushed. “No, fine, I understand. I suppose there’s something compelling about being utterly dominated too, but— Okay, seriously, you are putting truly disgusting images in my head when you blush like that; _please stop_.”

“ _Please stop talking_ ,” Anders protested, but they were both laughing—bright, merry, a little unhinged. Bethany Hawke really was his soul twin in a lot of ways. Anders lifted his chin, eyes crinkling at the corners, and caught Hawke’s gaze across the cavern. The others were some distance ahead, but Hawke had turned at the low echo of their laughter. His head was cocked, dark brows drawn together…but his lips twisted into a smile that sent tendrils of warmth spreading through Anders’ chest when their gazes locked. _I do_ , he thought, laughter fading into his own almost-shy smile. _I love you. Maker help me, but I do._

Hawke gave a curt nod and turned back to the others; Bethany squeezed his fingers. “Give him more time,” she said in a low voice. “Father, and Carver and the king…Lothering…he’s lost so much, and he doesn’t know how to be gentle in the face of pain. Just give him more time.”

“I’ll give him anything he wants,” Anders said; he couldn’t bring himself to look away. “That’s going to be the problem.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay! I ended up re-writing this chapter several times before I found where I wanted it to go. I'm back on track now.

“So…have you told him yet?”

Anders made an impatient noise. He was crouched before the cabinet where he kept the simple potions he used most often—elfroot, antivenom, braces, bandages and ointments for burns—and took a silent inventory of what he saw there. The volunteers weren’t always as meticulous as he’d like with their recordkeeping. Often a busy day would pass with a few extra bottles used or medkits scrapped and Anders none the wiser, unless he made a survey of the clinic before closing down for the night.

It was dangerous not to know immediately, unquestioningly, what tools he had at his disposal. He couldn’t assume he had something he did not: someday it could mean the life or death of a patient. A friend.

“The sooner you tell him, the sooner I can start planning the wedding.”

Sixteen bottles of elfroot, which meant four were missing. The vials had been sloppily pushed around as if the volunteer had been grabbing for them in a hurry.

Volunteer or thief, though? That was always the most depressing question. The people who came to him were desperate, and desperately poor. No matter how cheaply made elfroot potion could be, it was still so often out of the means of the people of Darktown. What a temptation it must be, Anders thought with a sigh, to be left alone with so much bounty.

He reached in and began steadily rearranging the bottles, lining them up neatly with their labels facing out. This was another little ritual of his. Ironically, he’d never been a quarter so tidy back in the Circle. Then, leaving his robes, smallclothes, books scattered about had been a childish act of defiance. _You may have dominion over whether I live or die, but you cannot control everything there is about me._ The earring had been a part of that. The feathers he _still_ wore as a reminder.

How silly it all seemed now that he had avenues for true defiance open to him.

Anders brushed his thumb over the lip of one of the bottles, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. He healed the sick and needy outside the control of the Circle. He followed Hawke and bashed in Templar heads on a pleasantly regular basis. He helped spirit mages away through the sewers of the city, and he did it all under the nose of a snarling and paranoid Knight-Commander Meredith, trapped in her tin can prison.

It felt good, Anders decided, to finally have an actual impact on the world. It felt right.

A soft breath rustled the hairs at his temple as Bethany leaned close, practically draped over his back, and whispered, “I see you smiling. Does that mean I can start picking out my feastday clothes?”

Anders swatted at her, lips twisting up into an answering grin when she laughed and danced away. “Shoo fly,” he said. “If you’re not going to do actual work like you promised, I’d be well within my rights to send you home.”

“But Anders,” Bethany breathed, clasping her hands over her (still impressive, no matter how caught up in her brother he might be) bosom and batting her lashes in a show of mock innocence. “Wouldn’t you rather go with your _original_ cunning—and, may I say, completely transparent—plan to keep me here until Big Brother comes to escort me home…just so you can get a few minutes of his attention?”

Anders looked up with a guilty flush, caught, but Bethany’s grin hadn’t broken. If anything, she looked even _more_ wickedly pleased at the confirmation she read on his face.

Maker, he was quickly veering toward pathetic.

“I’m sorry, Bethy,” Anders said, straightening and closing the cabinet. Other than a few missing vials, the herbs, simples, and potions were all accounted for. “That was not well-done of me. I _do_ truly enjoy your company.”

She just snorted and hoisted herself back up onto the table where bandages lay partially rolled, ends dangling over the sides in faded streamers. “Oh, I know you do. I’m _delightful_.” Anders shook his head, coming to sit on the other end of the table to help. The old wood groaned under their combined weight. “Though it would serve you right if I was deliberately terrible to get my own back. Just think: I could scowl at you and cross my arms and say insulting things about your ancestry.”

“All right, Fenris.”

“Or I could follow you around the clinic and ask questions about everything you touched, doing my best to get underfoot and then innocently play it off as if I didn’t know—and love—exactly how much I was winding you up.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We already have _one_ Merrill,” Anders said. Then, head jerking up, “Wait, it’s all an _act_?”

“ _Or_ ,” Bethany breezed on, ignoring his sputters, “we could skip all that nonsense and you could just tell me more about how much you love my stupid brother.”

He flushed, pushing her away playfully. “Demon. We both know my…ah, affections…are doomed and I may as well find meager solace in _your_ arms.”

She kicked his calf in retaliation; the table groaned at the sharp movement. “Excuse me, you would find rapturous joy in my arms and you know it. Not that I would risk Garrett’s wrath by moving in on his _obvious_ soul mate. So, _that_ decided,” she reached up and tucked back a strand of hair, “I can go back to planning your wedding feastday. I’ll wear red, I think. Something devastating.”

“Bethy,” Anders began, exasperated. Because really, what could he say to that? His heart kicked up its pace at the mere _idea_ , even though it was nothing he had ever wanted. Nothing he wanted even now that Garrett Hawke had turned him inside-out and upside-down with longing.

But what something like that symbolized? A promise, a vow: never being alone again?

Maker, that stole the breath from his lungs. And he couldn’t let himself _hope_ when there was nothing to base those hopes on but the gentle teasing a girl just as desperately lonely as himself.

“Tell me about when you knew,” Bethany asked. Her voice had dropped softer. Anders watched helplessly as she drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around her shins. There was sometimes so much wistful sadness in her eyes—he couldn’t stand the sight of it.

“If you want a love story, Bethy, you should ask Varric,” Anders said as gently as he could. “He can spin you something beautiful enough to steal your breath about pirates on the high seas, or a barbarian who pined for a maiden fair, or—”

She swatted his words away. “I’d rather hear something real,” she said. “I want something I can believe.”

She’d been forced to hide her entire life, Anders knew. She’d been raised knowing that if she shared the most important parts of her, she would be hated and hunted and maybe even killed. She’d lost her father and then her twin brother and had to flee her home to a place more dangerous for apostates than anywhere in Thedas. She was guarded like a princess in a tower by an overprotective brother and a grieving mother. She’d spent her entire life cut off from the world, and there was no hope that her situation might one day change.

And yet she was the kindest, sweetest, bravest, _snarkiest_ woman he’d ever met despite the weight of the world threatening to cage her incredible spirit.

Bethany Hawke had _earned_ his truth.

“All right,” Anders murmured. He reached for one of the forgotten bandages, letting its messy ends unspool before beginning to wind it up into a neat roll. “But you’re not allowed to make disgusted faces or _laugh_ or…”

“I won’t laugh at you,” Bethany promised eagerly. She crossed her legs beneath her, facing him, her back to the door. “I won’t even protest when you divulge all the gross details about how you want Big Brother to tie you up and paddle your bottom.”

“ _Bethany_!” Anders protested, flushing hard. His hands convulsively closed, ruining the careful work he’d done with the bandage. His skin felt all of a sudden six sizes too small at, dear Maker, the image that produced.

“…oh, and I was just _teasing_ ,” Bethany said, startled. “I didn’t even realize you _actually_ wanted—”

He threw down the bandage and clapped a hand over her mouth. “For the love of Andraste, don’t say it,” Anders pleaded.

There was mingled horror and laughter in her warm eyes, and he could _feel_ her trembling against the desire to giggle. Anders sighed and pulled back, trying his best to look put out. “So much for your promise not to laugh.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” she said, then clapped a hand over her _own_ mouth to stifle giggles at his aggrieved look. “I am, I swear it, I am. I’m very, very contrite. It’s just— All right. All right, I’m under control again.” Bethany dropped both hands primly into her lap, lacing the fingers together. Despite the embarrassment gnawing at the pit of his stomach, Anders couldn’t help a curl of happiness at the sight of her bright cheeks and dancing eyes. They lived hard lives in a city that wanted to grind them to dust. It was good to see her laugh. It was worth anything.

“I am _not_ going to give you inappropriate details about fantasies or idle daydreams,” Anders promised. “If what I felt was all about sex, anyway, it would be so much simpler. Honestly, anything would be simpler than Hawke.”

Bethany made a sympathetic face, amusement transmutating into empathy. She reached over to clasp his hand.

“You do not know—that is, I hope you do not know—how difficult it’s been being your friend and _not_ asking for all the details he would never divulge. What he was like as a boy. His favorite time of day, his favorite color, what he’s thinking when he straps on that armor. What he’s like when he takes it off. Not…physically, but what he’s like when his defenses are down. He’s the most maddening man I’ve ever met.”

“He’s the most maddening man in all of Thedas,” Bethany agreed quietly, squeezing his fingers. “And he would be the first to say so.”

Anders chuffed a laugh. “You’re right. The charming bastard. How _is_ it that he can be so charming, so… _magnetic_ , and yet so terrifying at the same time? I’ve met men who throw their weight around and rattle their spears, and I’ve barely given them a second thought. But Hawke…Garrett… He gets under the skin. He gets in the blood, until every beat of my heart sends awareness of him threading through me.”

“You love him,” Bethany said.

He gave a helpless shrug. “I love him,” he said. “And I’ve known that without really knowing for…Maker, weeks now. From close to the beginning. From the night with Karl,” he added suddenly. His heart gave a helpless lurch at the bittersweet memory. “I’ve been in love with Garrett Hawke ever since that night with Karl, and it didn’t matter how hard I fought it. If you venture too close to him, you just… Can’t escape his draw. You don’t even want to.”

“It’s a beautiful love story,” Bethany started to say, but Anders waved her off impatiently. “It _is_. It could be, at least.”

“For an angry apostate far older than his years, carrying the spirit of Justice inside of him? Bethany, there’s romanticism and then there’s just…deluding oneself.” And Andraste, how he hated saying it, but it was the truth. As bitter as it was, it wasn’t something he could escape.

He’d ruined his life years ago. For the sake of Justice, for the sake of all mages everywhere, he’d set fire to his own future. He’d made himself a radical and given up any secret hope he may have harbored to have a normal life.

And he didn’t regret it. He _didn’t_. It just made his stomach twist when he thought about what life could have been if he’d managed to escape the Circle and met Hawke somewhere far away from Causes and Justice and the insidious creep of martyrdom. If he’d been the boy he used to be, would Hawke have wanted him?

Maybe. He’d have at least that _hope_.

Now, here, he had a cold cot in the dregs of the undercity, aware that even if Hawke reached for him, he had nothing, _nothing_ to offer in return.

“Bethany,” Anders began, feeling his shoulders begin to round forward into defeat. Justice was restless under his skin, as confused and pulled in every which way as his host. “Maybe it’s better if we avoid talking about my doomed love for your brother and just stick to our work.”

“ _No_ ,” she said, tightening her grip when Anders would have pulled away. “No, wait, Anders—don’t. Don’t give up on him. Don’t give up on yourself. You just need to give it a little time and then, you’ll see, Big Brother will come around. He’s never looked at anyone quite the way he looks at you, and I just _know_ that he loves—”

“ _Bethany_.” 

They both twisted around in surprise at the sharp, _hard_ voice, and Anders’ heart froze in his chest. Hawke was standing in the doorway, Aveline a disapproving shadow in his wake. His handsome face was streaked with blood and he held a delicately carved staff in one hand. He looked so beautiful, so forbidding, that Anders almost couldn’t swallow back the low breath of response.

Maker, Hawke could knock the air out of him with just one look.

Bethany scrambled up, reflexively moving to put herself between her brother and Anders. Her shoulders were tight, and he could see the defensive tension in her body. He reached out to brush his fingers soothingly down her spine. _It’s all right_ , he might have said. _I can handle this_. She ignored him. “Garrett, what you heard—it wasn’t meant for your ears,” she said, lifting her chin. “You can’t penalize either of us for just—”

“ _Bethany_ ,” Hawke said again, harshly. His lyrium blue eyes were fixed on her face. “Aveline is going to take you home.”

“But—” she began.

“Aveline,” Hawke interrupted, never taking his eyes from his sister’s. “See it done.”

The guardswoman moved forward. There was blood spattering her own armor, though she’d taken care to wash it from her face. “Aye,” she said. “Come on, Bethany.” She added something in a much lower voice when Bethany began to protest again, ducking their heads together and catching the younger woman’s arm. Bethany deflated at whatever she said, nodding only a little petulantly.

The look she cast Anders over her shoulder as she left him alone with Hawke was filled with regret. Anders tried not to let it make him more anxious than he already was.

“Hawke,” he said after the clinic door had closed behind the two. He couldn’t stand the thought of letting silence stretch too long. There was no way of telling what Hawke was thinking—his face was impassive, his eyes hooded. The hard line of his body gave nothing away. “Can I interest you in something to drink? I have…” He thought about his meager stores. “Water and, well, water. Neither come from Darktown, so that’s a blessing in itself.”

Hawke didn’t answer.

“Here,” Anders added, moving to an ancient cupboard to collect two glasses. His hands were trembling, and Anders took the excuse of his back to Hawke to shake out his fingers. Whatever happened, he needed to get a hold of himself. “The glasses are even clean, which I know seems like a minor miracle, here. Do you prefer it chilled or tepid?”

He dared a glance over his shoulder; Hawke hadn’t moved. Hawke was just _staring him down_ , jaw beginning to clench, giant hands folding into ever-tightening fists.

Hawke seemed _angry_ , Anders realized with a shaken breath. He’d overheard far more than he was meant to, and he knew now how Anders felt, and instead of moving him to realize that the sentiment was returned (which was the way it always played out in Anders’ most cherished fantasies) he. Was. Furious.

Which, Anders supposed, was all the answer he needed. _Maker_.

“Chilled,” Anders said, hating the way his voice shook. He filled the glasses with water and covered the wide mouths with his hands, calling up a simple ice spell—any excuse to keep his back turned for as long as possible. His fingers were still trembling, fine tremors of disappointment moving in a subtle shockwave through him, when a big hand closed over his shoulder.

The grip was firm but not cruel, the weight heavy but not painful. Anders squeezed his eyes shut, hating the way his knees wanted to buckle at that single, simple touch. It wasn’t _fair_.

“Hawke,” Anders said, voice cracking like a schoolboy’s mid-word. “What you heard—”

“I know what I heard,” Hawke said, grip tightening once, very briefly. “Anders, look at me.”

_I can’t_ , he couldn’t say. _I don’t dare_. Anders dropped his head forward and dragged in a trembling breath, fighting to control his expression. Then, slowly, he turned—tipping his face up until he was meeting lyrium-bright eyes.

It was like staring straight into the heart of the sun and hoping for the best.

Hawke dropped his hand, but he didn’t step back. They were _close_ , closer than Anders had thought. A few inches weakly swayed toward that incredible heat and they’d be chest to chest, breath to breath. Anders wet his lips nervously, fighting all his baser instincts—and Hawke’s eyes dropped to his mouth.

That hadn’t been anger he’d seen—it had been _desire_.

“Oh,” Anders gasped; his knees sagged at the sudden burst of _Maker yes please please yes_ and he had to scrabble behind him for support, knocking over the glasses of chilled water as his hands splayed across the table.

He leaned back even as Hawke moved _forward_ , looming over him. Those impossible eyes were locked on his mouth, and he was so close now that Anders could feel the bite of armor against the winging arch of his hipbones; he could smell blood and steel and Garrett Hawke.

It was killing him not to surge forward into a desperate kiss. He was so blindingly hard so fast he thought he really might die—his heart, pounding rabbit-fast in his chest, might just give out mid-pulse.

_So this_ , Anders thought, _is what madness feels like._

Maker, his cock was straining against his smalls, and he was _panting_ for it—and Hawke was just _standing_ there, watching him with an inscrutable expression. Beautiful and strong and fierce and a little crazy himself—and so desperately _wanted_ that all of Anders tightened like a fist in response.

_Please_ , he thought. _Please please please._

“Anders,” Hawke finally said, gaze lifting slowly—reluctantly?—to meet Anders’. “I…brought you a gift.”

He had no idea what to say to that. He had no idea if he could even speak.

Hawke took a measured step back, then another, as if carefully putting distance between them. Anders swayed forward, wanting nothing more than to tip against the huge, solid wall of his body—but Hawke was lifting the staff between them and Anders could do nothing but reach out to take it.

The wood was finely sanded and stained a deep reddish-brown. Designs had been carved along the body, with smoother grooves for a steady grip. Its head was a beautiful branching of delicate wood, swirling around an amber-colored stone. Smears of blood made deeper shadows against the grain.

“The stone reminded me of your eyes,” Hawke said, and it was at once the sweetest _and_ the most terrifying thing Anders had ever heard…because, of course, Hawke had _killed_ the mage who’d owned this staff. No doubt there had been no choice—Anders had been forced to kill his own fair share of blood mages while traveling with Hawke—but still, he couldn’t shake the chill that worked its way down his spine.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to. He wasn’t sure what sort of a man he would be if he ever thought of even the most necessary death and didn’t have a moment’s pall.

“Thank you,” Anders said, hands curling around the staff. He met Hawke’s eyes again, feeling them boring through him. “Hawke,” he tried again. Then, because it felt _right_ , “…Garrett. What you heard…”

“I know what I heard,” Hawke said again, as if that were any kind of _answer_. 

Anders let out a frustrated breath and turned, leaning the staff against a nearby post with more care than he was feeling inside at the moment. “Yes, you said that,” he murmured. “But perhaps you should know that it was— I am—” He faltered before he could finish, biting the inside of his mouth. _What are you doing?_ a huge part of him whispered. _What I should have done weeks ago_ , another, smaller part answered.

Justice, he couldn’t help but notice, was entirely too quiet.

“I am in earnest,” Anders finally settled on. He started to glance over his shoulder and paused part-way, eyes fixing on a distant point. His face was in profile to Hawke, however, and he could just see him in his periphery—beautiful and dark and rubbing at his face in a gesture that was nothing like the barbarian warrior he preferred others to see.

There was so much more to Garrett Hawke than he was willing to admit to others. There was so much more than he was willing to admit to _himself._

“I know we haven’t known each other long,” Anders continued quietly, “but then, with a man like you, I’m not certain time is all that necessary. You’re like a force of nature. You’re…undeniable. And who am I to try to deny the undeniable?”

“Anders,” Hawke began; his voice was unusually rusty.

Anders closed his eyes. “Please let me finish. It’s like a madness, when I’m near you. A fever in my brain, but it’s also like…a numbed limb coming to life. Drinking elfroot. Maker, a thousand and one clichés that any poet could spout, and none of them quite strong enough. You’re like no one I have ever met, and I would follow you to the Deep Roads, down into the belly of the earth, into the very heart of the world if that’s what you asked of me. I want you in a way I have never wanted anyone. I,” _spit it out, Anders_ , “love you. Better than I love myself.”

“I know,” Hawke said, and that… _that_ was almost enough to topple him to his knees. Because of course, of _course_ Hawke knew, and of course it changed nothing. Why had Anders let himself hope even for a moment?

“Well,” Anders began, but he stopped when a huge hand closed over his shoulder, again turning him around. He let himself be pulled back into Hawke’s orbit, lashes flickering as he looked up. Hawke’s face was more open than he could ever remember seeing it— _younger_ , too, and it struck Anders suddenly that he had no idea how old he was. Older than him? Younger? Maker, he’d never even stopped to wonder.

_Now_ he looked like the young man Anders was quickly beginning to realize he was, brows drawn together into a frown, eyes scanning Anders’ face as if he were searching for some answer in the tired lines there.

He reached up and brushed back a strand of golden hair, calloused fingertips scraping almost delicately along Anders’ skin. “If it were just about sex,” Hawke said, “that would be one thing. I want you. I’ve wanted you almost from the beginning. I would throw you against that wall and pin you by your throat and fuck you until you _screamed._ ”

Anders swallowed, hard. “Oh Maker,” he breathed. He didn’t have the time to follow _that_ delightful image all the way to its inevitable (hot, sweaty, desperate, wanton) end.

“But it’s not,” Hawke continued. His eyes searched Anders’ face, expression so blessedly, inexplicably _open_ that it by itself was almost enough to steal his breath. “I heard you. I knew even before that. You’re in love with me, and I—”

“Hawke,” Anders tried to interrupt, suddenly desperate for him to _stop_. He already knew where things stood; he didn’t need to have his heart shredded in confirmation. “You don’t have to—I know, all right? I understand. You don’t have to spell it out for me.”

Hawke pulled back, away, raking a big hand roughly through his hair. “But you do _not_ understand,” he protested. His voice had dropped back into its lowest register, rumbling growl enough to make the fine golden hairs along Anders’ arms stand up. Hawke paced away, then back—a big, dark, bristling wyvern. The sight of him like this should have made Anders run for cover. Instead, his heart raced; his body ached.

When Hawke passed close, Anders foolishly reached out and brushed his fingertips along the spiked steel of his pauldrons. He didn’t step back when Hawke rounded on him, handsome face twisted into a frustrated scowl. _Killing comes so easily to you_ , Anders thought. _But this? This will never be anything but impossible_. “Explain however you can,” Anders said, refusing to flinch back from Hawke’s fierce glare. “However long you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

He hadn’t meant it as more than simple reassurance—easy words thoughtlessly given—but as he said it ( _I’m not going anywhere_ ) Anders suddenly realized… Maker, he meant it. All his life, he’d chaffed at the restrictions placed on him by the Circle. He’d longed to escape and cross the wide belly of Thedas, answerable to no one but himself. The Wardens had been a temporary stop, a vow easily broken. Justice and his Cause could go anywhere—they did not tie him in place.

But Hawke? Hawke was a tether, keeping him bound. Hawke’s dominion over him was as strong as the Circle’s ever was…but he didn’t chaff against it. He _welcomed_ it.

He would spend his life fighting for his Cause, happily in this man’s shadow. He was, truly, going nowhere.

Hawke must have realized the depth of Anders’ words at the same moment as Anders. The frustrated scowl slowly lifted, his expression melting back into the younger, more open visage Anders was rapidly coming to love. His lashes lowered, cheeks flushing a light pink. “Oh,” Hawke said. “You don’t love me. You… _love_ me.”

Anders ducked his head, but he didn’t look away. He wouldn’t, not while Hawke was still so beautifully open. “Yes, well,” he said weakly. Then, because it _had_ to be said, “But it changes nothing. That you don’t feel the same way, that is. I will always be by your side no matter what may come.”

“I can’t love you back,” Hawke protested.

“Even so.”

“Anders—” Hawke—Garrett—dragged his fingers through his hair again, looking utterly lost. It took everything Anders had not to reach for him. _Shield_ him. “You don’t understand. When we lost Father—when I lost Carver—something _broke_ in me. I already love Mother and Bethany too much. I can’t lose them and stay…Maker, stay _sane_. And I can’t risk adding another life to the balance. It’s already a risk, caring for all of you the way that I do. If I let myself _love_ you…”

This man, this beautiful, hard, complicated man was going to break his heart. Anders could see the terrible pain in Garrett’s eyes, the subtle way his hands trembled, as if holding back some great and terrible tide.

“It doesn’t matter,” Anders promised. “I understand. You don’t have to love me. Just let me stay by your side, and I’ll be content. No,” he added quickly at Garrett’s low noise, “I’ll be better than content. I’ll be _happy_. Whatever you can give me is enough.” He gave a slightly unhinged laugh. Was he really here, with Garrett Hawke, having a conversation straight out of one of Varric’s tragic romances? Perhaps they both had gone mad. “I truly never thought I could even have this much.”

Garrett let out a harsh breath. His eyes were suspiciously wet, tears caught in bright prisms against a fan of dark lashes. “The fair maiden said dramatically,” he said, fumbling toward the same joke because the Maker was playing some cruel trick on Anders, giving him a gorgeous, fierce, terrifying, perfect man who understood him down to the bone—and who had been so damaged by a life of constant fear and vigilance and loss that nothing could ever come of their undeniable connection.

“Ass,” Anders muttered, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes to blot away his own tears. “You’ve been spending too much time with Varric. And who’s to say _I’m_ the maiden here, anyway?”

Garrett raised an eyebrow. Anders pretended to scowl. “Not a word,” Anders warned.

“All right,” Garrett said with something very close to a laugh. “How about this, then: if anything ever…changes…for me, you will be the first I come to.”

And that—Maker, that breath of hope, in the wake of such disappointment—that _possibility_ … “ _Oh_ ,” he said, stunned. Then, trying for a crooked smile: “The first of many, then?”

Garrett stepped in then, suddenly, herding Anders back a step. Two. Anders’ back hit the worn post; he scrabbled behind him for purchase, eyes huge, heart jackhammering in his chest. He could feel the cold jut of armor against the wings of his hipbones again, could feel Garrett’s breath against his face. His own breathing hitched, then came in stuttery pants. His skin was too hot and he wanted… He _wanted_ …

Garrett’s eyes dropped to his mouth. “The only,” he murmured, each word gusting over Anders’ parted lips. And then, inconceivably, he was leaning in—slowly, as if giving Anders time to turn away—and brushing their mouths together.

Sweet. So fucking _sweet_ Anders couldn’t stand it. He felt like he’d been caught in winter’s grasp, body frozen yet _humming_ in response. Garrett’s lips were chapped, warm, moving over his with the impossible care he only ever took with Bethany—as if Anders were delicate, as if he were, perhaps, somehow precious.

One big hand lifted to cup his jaw, thumbnail rasping over two-day stubble. Anders shuddered, _quaking_ , and pressed into the kiss with a low noise that rose up and up and out of the very depths of him. If this was how Garrett Hawke kissed when he claimed he _wasn’t_ in love… Maker, it felt as if his heart was going to explode.

It only lasted a moment, though. Slowly, Garrett pulled back, his breath coming in hot pants against Anders’ parted lips. His eyes were darker somehow—less like lyrium and more like the Waking Sea in rare moments of rest. His thumb rasped over Anders’ cheek again, again…and then he dropped his hand and pulled fully away.

Anders had to lock his knees to keep from swaying helplessly toward him.

Garrett cleared his throat and lifted his chin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that. It won’t happen again.” And like magic, he was _Hawke_ again. “We just pulled in the last haul,” he added; his voice was only a little husky. “And Varric’s brother has been paid. We leave for the Deep Roads as soon as Bartrand can finish purchasing supplies. Are you with me?”

He opened his mouth, but… Maker, he couldn’t _speak_. Instead, Anders nodded even as he reached back to grip the wooden pillar hard. His head was swimming, and he could almost swear he could still taste Hawke’s mouth on his.

Hawke nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’ll send word when we’re ready to go.” He pulled away, heading toward the clinic exit…then paused. Turned back. His lashes dipped once, almost _bashful_ for the barest moment. “I hope you like the staff,” Hawke said before turning away again and shoving his way through the door.

It slammed behind him. Hard.

Alone, Anders slumped back against the post, his breath leaving him in a great _whoosh_. He pressed one hand over his hammering heart before lifting it to brush trembling fingers over his lips. They felt swollen. _Wet._

“What was that?” he breathed, staring at the door.

And how in Andraste’s name was he going to survive it?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the updated tags if the Deep Roads worry you.

Anders met Hawke in the guild’s main square just after sunrise, new staff in hand, bag filled with as many healing potions and draughts of lyrium as he could manage. He’d left instructions with his volunteers to keep the clinic open while he was away, but he wasn’t letting himself think of them trying to muddle through without him for weeks. Not now. Not when he had Hawke in his sights.

Hawke barely glanced at him when Anders moved into the circle of wagons and buzzing activity. If anyone had been observing them, they would have never guessed that the very foundation of their relationship had shifted overnight. It was hard not to let that sting, no matter how hard he fought against the response. Hawke had _told_ him that nothing could come of…whatever it was they were or were not doing. He’d been nothing if not completely honest.

Still. Anders supposed there had been some small part of himself that had hoped that when they saw each other again, things would be different.

“Cheer up,” Bethany said, falling in next to him. She was dressed in traveling leathers and had her dark hair pulled into a jaunty ponytail. It swung every time she tipped her head. “Whatever you’re thinking, I know for a fact that it’s not _half_ so bad as you fear.”

Anders cast her a flat look. “I was thinking about broodmothers and ogres and giant spiders,” he lied.

“Oh.” Bethany made a face. “Well in that case, yes, it probably is just as bad as you fear.”

He snorted and elbowed her side, and she squirmed away with a laugh. Hawke looked over at them again, brows lifted and brilliant eyes unreadable. Anders had to fight not to immediately look away; shockingly, it was _Hawke_ who colored and broke eye contact first, turning back to the argument he was having with his mother with red eartips.

“Oooh,” Bethany breathed, grabbing at Anders’ arm. “I _knew_ something good happened between the two of you after I left.”

“ _Shh!_ ” Anders was all too aware of Varric standing nearby, conspicuously checking his crossbow…but Andraste’s tits, he knew the dwarf’s hearing was near superhuman when there was gossip to be had. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“But,” she began.

Anders caught her arm and tugged her away a few steps, eyes pleading. “Bethany, _please_. I promise I’ll tell you everything once we’re safely back in Kirkwall and I can be sure we won’t be overheard, but if I’m going to go back into the Deep Roads against all laws of reason or sanity, I’m going to need to keep my wits about me. And that means _not_ thinking obsessively about your brother, or worrying about someone overhearing something they shouldn’t.”

She huffed a breath. “This is going to be a _painfully_ long march if both of you are going to act like cats wary of having their tails tred upon. All right,” she added when Anders just stared her down. “I promise I won’t try to gossip or distract you with _feelings_ or any of that. You can be just as moody as you need to.”

“ _Thank_ you.” He couldn’t help the lopsided smile though, and Bethany smiled back, warm eyes dancing. “While we’re on the subject of your brother, however…”

“Ten seconds and already you buckle?” she teased.

Anders shot her a flat look, then glanced over toward where Leandra was stepping away from her son, both hands raised as if washing her hands of him. It was always surprising to see anyone stand up to the big warrior, but it was even more shocking when it was something as slight and seemingly fragile as his mother. The look Hawke was shooting Leandra was sheepish but stubborn, not a trace of the mercurial temper there despite the clear argument they had been locked in. Hawke’s family was so obviously special to him—sacred in the way Andraste was sacred to that fool Elthina.

He’d give anything for Hawke to look at him like that.

…but that wasn’t the point and now wasn’t the time.

“How did you convince your brother to allow you to come?” Anders said, forcing his thoughts away from dangerous paths. “And what’s more—how did you convince him to fight your mother on it?” He couldn’t be certain, but from the looks Leandra shot her daughter, it seemed an easy guess that the argument was about her presence on the expedition.

Bethany confirmed as much with a sigh. “I used an unfair amount of emotional blackmail,” she admitted. “He wouldn’t have allowed it otherwise. Big Brother bends over backwards to protect me—usually when I don’t need to be protected.”

_We all need to be protected from this_ , Anders could have said. None of them seemed to fully comprehend the terrible danger they were walking right into. Even Varric was treating the Deep Roads as if they were only one of their more unpleasant adventures. Perhaps they were more clear of darkspawn than usual thanks to the recent blight, but they were far from empty. Anders knew; he _remembered_. His dreams still crawled with those memories, and if he could impress the terrible danger they were all in, he would.

But the call of riches—and an escape from crushing poverty—were a louder voice than any he could manage. He could only be glad to go with Hawke to watch his back and heal any damage the darkspawn inflicted before they found their way stumbling to the surface again. But Bethany…

Hawke would never forgive himself if anything happened to Bethany. It was madness to take her along.

“Maybe you should stay,” Anders began quietly, but the _look_ Bethany shot him made the words die on his tongue. It was fierce and _furious_ , flaring hot; in that moment, she looked so much like her brother that it was uncanny. 

“ _Stop_ ,” she said on a snarl. “I put up with it from him, but I don’t have to take it from _you_. This is my life, this is my choice, I am going, and there is _nothing_ any of you can say to stop me.” She growled the last at him, standing very close—threatening in a way Anders thought only the elder Hawke could manage. Then she turned and stalked away to say her goodbyes to her mother.

Anders let out a long breath, deflating. Maker take him, the entire family was utterly mad—and more than a little frightening.

Varric shuffled closer. “I could’ve told you that would end badly, Blondie,” he said, slinging Bianca over his shoulder again. His lips were curved into a wry smirk. “Sunshine’s just as bullish as her brother when she’s got her mind set on something.”

“Yeah,” Anders said. Bartrand was calling the men together, caravan preparing to head off. “I got that.”

“You and me will keep a close eye on her,” Varric added; Anders didn’t miss the way he kept his voice low, eyes on the Hawke siblings as they hugged their (crying) mother one last time. “We’ll just do our best to be subtle about it.”

He didn’t miss the order in Varric’s voice, _subtle_ as it was. Anders cast him a wry look, shaking his head—but he wasn’t disagreeing. Varric was a tricky one, but he was clever, and he was better with people than Anders could ever be, even before he had the spirit of Justice tagging along in his head. “All right,” he said, hoisting his staff. “Consider me falling in line. For the record,” he added, “I plan on watching your back too.”

“Good to hear, Blondie,” Varric said with a quick grin, and Anders felt himself smiling in return even as he fell in step with the dwarf. The caravan was taking off, winding its way out of the square toward the gate that would lead them out of Kirkwall. “So, you and Hawke…”

“Don’t you start,” Anders warned, Varric’s rasping laughter somehow both annoying and welcome. He still oh-so clearly remembered the early days of their acquaintance, when Varric watched with indulgent amusement as Hawke broke him down piece by merciless piece. “It’s going to be a long march there and back without any of that.”

Varric spread his hands wide; Anders wasn’t fooled into believing his innocence. “Far be it from me to poke at a sore point,” he said. “But I’m not above a little meddling…for the sake of the story.”

Anders narrowed his eyes. “What are you on about?”

“Oh, nothing you’ll truly object to. Hawke!” he called before Anders could stop him. He gestured Hawke over, and it was all Anders could do to bite back a curse. Trust Varric to muscle his way in where he wasn’t wanted—Hawke’s unofficial biographer had an unhealthy fascination with the chaos that spun out around the warrior wherever he went.

“Varric,” Hawke said in a low, measured tone, falling in step with them. Bethany, Anders saw, had hurried ahead to hop onto the back of a wagon. She was subtly wiping at her eyes—whatever her mother had said in her last desperate plea to get her to stay had been hard on her. “Is there a problem?”

Varric looked far too innocent. The snake. “We’ve got a good start and fine weather,” he said. “We’ve got Warden maps, supplies, and our very own Grey Warden who can scent out darkspawn before they scent us…and heal our hides if any get past his impressive nose.”

“You make me sound like a bloodhound,” Anders muttered without any real heat. His skin was prickling with awareness at Hawke’s proximity, and he could feel the thrum of heat that always seemed to surface when he was near.

Varric laughed and fell behind with a comment about checking the maps; Hawke stayed at Anders’ side, towering over him in his threatening dark armor. His hair was pulled back into a queue, though a few strands fell free, brushing against his cheeks. He was smooth-shaven ( _no rasp of stubble against his mouth, his neck, the insides of his thighs_ ) and looked nearly respectable, though Anders had no doubt that would change as the days passed without chance to bathe or shave or sleep for more than a few hours at a time.

…and Hawke had said something, voice pitched very low.

“I’m sorry?” Anders said, tipping his face up to look at him. Hawke was staring straight ahead, jaw set in increasingly grim lines. His brow was furrowed into a frown, but he didn’t seem angry. Anders had made a study of Hawke for so long now that he could read the subtle shifts in him as easily as some men read the weather—if Hawke truly were angry, he would feel it in his bones.

Even so, the scowl darkened, and Bartrand’s men very obviously edged away, leaving a wide open space around where Anders and Hawke walked shoulder to shoulder.

“I said,” Hawke murmured, jaw tight, blue eyes boring holes into the cart quite a few paces in front of them, “it is a good thing Fereldens are known for caring for their dogs, then.”

That surprised a laugh out of Anders, low and a little breathless. “Are you saying you _want_ me to be your hound?” he said—and very firmly pushed aside the sudden onslaught of images ( _crawling on his hands and knees, naked, whining low in his throat and begging, begging, always just begging for it_ ) he didn’t have time or privacy to sort through.

Hawke must have had a similar barrage; he choked on his own laugh, glancing at Anders out of the corner of his eyes. “Don’t tempt me,” he said, voice dropping into its lowest register—a growl that made the hairs on Anders’ arms stand up…made his cock tighten in response. Maker, at the sound of that voice, it was all he could do to keep from falling to his knees.

“I don’t think that was part of the deal,” Anders said, a little breathless. “Not tempting you, I mean. I’m willing to be patient, but Garrett—I _want_ to tempt you.”

Hawke was silent for a long minute, watching him with lyrium-bright eyes—keeping him pinned in place. Anders began to slow, but one of Hawke’s big, gauntleted hands dropped to the back of his spine, splaying wide and pushing him along. The prick of those sharp metal talons digging through the layers of his robes did nothing to cool his heated response. _Fuck_ he wanted to feel them scratching down his back, leaving red furrows behind as he arched against the cold of Hawke’s breastplate, cock straining between them, breaths coming in small, helpless pants… He wanted to be grabbed and thrown down, wanted Hawke to pin him against the ground as he twisted and writhed, too needy to keep still, too hungry to truly want to break free, desperate to rut against the big warrior’s body with aching, keening cries, so close, so close, he always came _so close_ to coming and hadn’t been given that relief in so long…

“ _Stop_ ,” Hawke growled. His head was tipped close, eyes hungrily sweeping Anders’ body. It was all Anders could do to swallow a whimper at the sound. “You wear everything on your face, and I can’t help but… _How_ have you survived this long, when you’re so bloody easy to read?”

“Blind luck,” Anders managed. His voice sounded suspiciously strangled. “Garrett, I know you want—”

But Hawke pulled away, putting distance between them as if he didn’t trust Anders—didn’t trust _himself_ —to be so close. “No,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “No, you will stop this. You know my reasons for holding back.”

“But Garrett—”

“ _No_.” There was real anger in his voice now, making the hair on Anders’ arms stand up for an altogether different reason. Anders swallowed his protest and gave a jerky nod, heart clenching like a fist in his chest. It hurt to breathe, but he dragged in a thin breath anyway, hating the way his eyes felt hot, his hands trembled. He wanted, Maker, he _wanted_ …

But Hawke was right—he _had_ made himself clear, and now wasn’t the time or place for hope. “As you say, Hawke,” Anders murmured. Justice stirred inside him in some weak response, but Anders swallowed it all back. They had work to do, and a dangerous mission to undertake.

Later, when they returned triumphant. He would push at the edges of Hawke’s boundaries and hope for a miracle _later_.

**

As it turned out, _later_ was looking less and less likely to occur.

“Have I mentioned recently that I _truly_ dislike your brother?” Anders muttered, skating around a jagged hole in the floor. Everything had been going remarkably well in the early stages of the expedition—even when they came across an unexpected block in the path, they’d managed to find a way around. There were plenty of darkspawn to keep his skin constantly itching, but not so many that they ever became overwhelmed. They had even discovered some of the fabled riches they had ventured into the belly of the earth to claim.

…and then Bartrand had lost his mind and locked them in an ancient dwarven thaig, all for a unsettling lyrium statue that Anders wouldn’t have touched even if compelled by blood magic, and now they were stumbling lost through a dark warren of caves, desperately trying to find their way to the surface before their meager food and water gave out.

There had been a fucking _dragon_. An ogre. _Demons_. Anders was down to one bottle of lyrium, and there were no more healing potions to be had. Things were looking grim.

“I really, _truly_ dislike your brother.”

“Not as much as I do right now, Blondie,” Varric muttered. He was just a few steps ahead of Anders, Bethany a step or two behind. Hawke was forging a path up ahead. He did that a lot ever since they’d stumbled across the ogre, no doubt wanting to take the full brunt of whatever nasty surprise the Deep Roads threw at them. His armor was dented and rent where he’d been caught between a high dragon’s powerful jaws, and blood smeared the edges in a heavy flaking crust. He’d been burned across one side of the face, skin still pinked despite all the healing magic Anders had been able to pour into him, and every time Anders lifted his eyes to find his shape in the dim, he couldn’t help a flutter of fear that this—this, right now, right here—would be the last time he would see the man he loved alive.

That constant fear made each step its own personal nightmare.

But up ahead, Hawke had stopped. He was standing at a crossroads, head cocked in clear concentration, as if he were listeing to something, studying something. With all the hoardes and surprises and various defeats they had suffered over the last…week? Maker, time bled together so easily here…that kind of concentration was rarely the harbinger of something _good_. Varric and Anders shared a look and hurried to catch up with him.

“Hawke?” Varric said. Anders’ fingers were tight around his staff. “What are you… _ah_.”

_Ah_. As if Varric suddenly understood; Anders looked around, straining to glimpse what the two men were seeing. It was yet another part of the Deep Roads, indistinguishable from everything they had already seen. There was nothing especially threatening or promising that Anders could discern.

Hawke reached out to touch a craggy outcropping, eyes restlessly scanning the rubble. “This part of the Deep Roads looks familiar,” he said slowly.

Varric just _laughed_. “We’re back where we started,” he said, the relief in his voice nearly enough to make Anders’ knees buckle. It couldn’t be true—they couldn’t _possibly_ have made it all the way through that twisting warren and… _survived_. Not even Hawke had luck that divinely inspired. “And in only five days! Not bad, eh?”

“Oh, _only_ five days?” Anders said. He leaned against his staff, feeling the iron press of exhaustion…but he was smiling, too. Hawke turned to look at him, black brows arched, and Anders felt the weak grin slowly spreading. They were really going to make it. Thank the Maker.

From behind him came the soft shuffle of Bethany’s feet, her own staff dragging across cracked stone. “Could we,” she began voice full of the weariness of _five days_ lost and fighting against impossible odds, “slow down? I’m not feeling very well.”

“Let’s make camp if you’re sick,” Hawke said immediately. “Now that we know our way back, we can afford to take our time.”

Varric snorted. “I’ll wager it was those deep mushrooms we found. I warned you not to eat them.”

Anders shook his head, turning to Bethany with a wry twist of his lips. “I think a rest sounds like a _very good_ idea. We need a few hours to decompress after contemplating our own mortality for the last week. Here,” he added, lightly bumping their shoulders together as he called up a flame; he could sense the tickle of the blight nearby, but not the stronger pull of darkspawn. They should celebrate this victory by taking the chance to finally get _warm_. “I’ll even make a fire. You look like you should get off your feet and try to shake off this chill.”

The light flickered between them, casting her face in deep shadows.

No, he realized with a sickening lurch as he focused— _really_ paid attention for the first time in the last few hours—it wasn’t just shadows cast from the flame he was seeing. Bethany’s skin was a mottled, sickly grey, dark circles under glazed eyes, lips cracked. She looked wan and worn and barely able to keep to her feet, as if the very earth was trying to suck her down into it. “Maker’s breath,” Anders breathed.

“Bethany,” Hawke began, but he never got to finish. Bethany startled away from the light, squinting as if it pained her—and all at once, lost the strength to stand. She toppled _hard_ and fast, staff clattering to the stone, body gone limp as a forgotten toy. “ _Bethany!_ ”

Anders stared, aghast, as Hawke stumbled to his knees beside his sister. He ripped off his gauntlets and threw them carelessly aside, one big hand cradling her head, the other passing helplessly along her arm as if searching for injury. She was breathing harshly, the sound of it loud and _damning_ in the echoing cavern. How could he have missed that sharp, labored breath as Bethany struggled behind him? Maker take him, he and Varric should have been paying attention.

“I don’t see any wounds,” Hawke said, voice cracking. He sounded so young, so lost—nothing at all like the steely barbarian he projected to the world. When he looked up to meet Anders’ eyes, the flicker of firelight caught on a sheen of tears. “ _Anders…_ ”

Anders closed his eyes and concentrated, feeling for an injury he might have missed. They’d had a run-in with a nasty group of hurlocks some hours before, and Bethany had taken a direct hit, but he’d given her the last of the elfroot and the wound had closed without need of further intervention. The injury had been so _small_ he hadn’t really even thought about it, mana too low for even the simplest of healing spells.

He hadn’t even thought about it.

But now, now he was thinking about it. Now he was searching with his powers, seeking out anything he might have missed, looking for—

“ _Oh_ ,” he said, nearly dropping his staff when he felt the oil slick taint seeping through Bethany’s blood. His own tainted blood felt its tug, had been feeling it like a whisper he couldn’t place for hours now. When he opened his eyes and saw Hawke’s face—Bethany cradled nearly insensate in his arms, his body coiled protectively around her, stark terror transmutating his features—Anders knew his own sick worry was clear.

“Anders,” Hawke began, voice breaking mid-word.

“I’m so sorry,” Anders said, standing helpless before the man he loved…and the dear friend slipping farther away with each passing moment. “I don’t— It’s nothing I can heal.”

“That’s impossible,” Hawke said, and hearing him now, like this, was breaking Anders’ heart. “You can heal anything.”

He closed his eyes again, tears hot on his lashes. It hurt, ah Maker, it hurt to even breathe. “Not this,” he murmured. Then, because they needed to know: “It’s the blight. The blight has her.”


	11. Chapter 11

Silence held, taut as a bowstring, between them for what felt like an age. Finally, Hawke drew in a serrated breath, and the sound of it—sharp, broken, aching—was a twisting knife inside of Anders.

He was going to lose Bethany, the girl who had become such an unlikely friend.

And with Bethany, they were all going to lose Hawke. He was not fool enough to think there would be anything of softness left inside the other man if his beloved sister slipped away from him. _Your life has been nothing but loss_ , Anders thought. Maker, it wasn’t fair.

“Shit,” Varric breathed, standing several paces back. His own voice was shaken, quavery. “Shit. _Shit_.”

Bethany turned her head against her brother’s shoulder; there were dark bruises about her eyes, and Anders swore he could see them spreading as each second ticked by and the sickness claimed her bit by poisonous bit. “I’ll end up just like Wesley, won’t I?” she murmured. Bethany lifted one hand to weakly touch her brother’s arm. “You’re going to have to— To kill me. Like Aveline did.”

Hawke just gripped her tighter. “ _No_ ,” he snarled, but there was no true heat to the words—they were hollow, broken. Anders could see the fracture lines forming through him. “There must be some other way. I can’t, I.” He swallowed, then leaned in to rest his forehead against the crown of his sister’s dark head. There were tears caught in his lashes, glinting bright. “I can’t lose you, Bethy. Not you.”

“I’m not going to last until the surface,” Bethany breathed. They could all hear the rattle in her voice, and it just made Hawke hold on tighter, as if he could defy death itself. “It’s coming on faster.”

Anders moved closer. Varric grabbed for him, murmuring, “ _Not now; it’s not a good idea right now_ ,” but he shook the dwarf off, drawn to the Hawke siblings like a compass pointed due north. He crouched on the other side of Bethany, aware of Hawke’s low growl—the possessive, protective way he curled around her. Anders wasn’t the enemy, but right now, Garrett Hawke was a wounded beast; he _would_ lash out if Anders was not very careful.

He set the staff aside and lifted both hands, palms-out. He let all the love he felt—for Bethany, for Garrett—show on the tired planes of his face, in his eyes, as he murmured, “Garrett, I need you to listen to me.”

“Heal her or leave off,” Hawke snapped, face twisted up—gentling again when Bethany reached up and brushed her fingertips across the tear tracks lining his cheek. When he looked down at her again, he looked so _lost_ , rage and pain warring for dominance.

“I can’t heal her of this,” Anders murmured, carefully (carefully, carefully, aware he had never been in more danger from Garrett Hawke than he was right now) reaching out to touch his arm. “But I need you to listen to me. There might be something we _can_ do.”

_That_ had Hawke’s full attention. “ _Well?_ ”

“Anders, no,” Bethany began, as if she knew what he was about to suggest. Maybe she did; he’d told her stories countless times to fill the hours as they worked side-by-side in the clinic after the last patient had left. He’d never been very protective of the Warden’s secrets—he supposed when it came down to it, there were few things he held sacred. His cause. His freedom. His _friends_.

This maddening, desperate love that clawed like a wild beast inside his chest.

“I stole the maps from a Warden that had come to Kirkwall,” he said, ignoring Bethany’s weak protest. “I wanted to know if he was looking for me. He wasn’t. The maps were for planning their own expedition into the Deep Roads.”

Hawke made a frustrated noise, very near a growl. “What good does that do us?”

His gaze flicked down to meet Bethany’s, reading—and ignoring—the plea in her cloudy eyes. “If the Wardens are here, I know where. We could bring Bethany to them…”

“And do what?” she demanded. She gripped her brother’s arm, trying to hoist herself upright, but it was clear she was struggling not to collapse back again. “Become a Grey Warden?”

Hawke shifted to help her, letting her lean against his shoulder but remain mostly upright. His eerie blue eyes moved between Bethany’s face and Anders; Anders was relieved to see some of the animal desperation had been banked, at least for now. He had Hawke’s full attention. “Is becoming a Grey Warden a cure?” he demanded.

“Yes, I suppose it is. But it’s not without a price.” His gaze flicked to Bethany’s frown. “One not everyone is willing to pay.”

“What price? Maker’s breath, spit it out!”

_Please forgive me,_ he thought, hating, _hating_ to go against Bethany’s will—but it was more than her life at stake, and it was beyond her decision to make, even if it _was_ her life… Maker take him, he simply couldn’t face the thought of Hawke being lost to them forever. He loved him too much. He loved him more than reason. “The process of becoming a Warden is…unpleasant. And irreversible,” Anders said. “Bethany might survive the blight, but at the cost of becoming a Grey Warden. It’s not an easy life. Trust me.”

“I would be bound forever to them,” Bethany said quietly. She closed (trembling) fingers over her brother’s. “I’d feel the Calling one day. It may be an easier fate to just let me die.”

Hawke’s own hand trembled under hers. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t let that be an option. I just… _can’t_.” He drew in a breath, then wrapped his arm around Bethany’s waist and carefully (so, so very, very carefully) lifted her to her feet. He kept her close, letting her weight rest fully against him. “All right, Anders,” Hawke said. “If it might save her, it’s worth a try. Let’s not waste any time.”

“I hope I’m right,” Anders said quietly, praying for the first time in a very, very long time that the Maker would look down from his golden throne and show them all a little mercy. “This way.”

Now that they were back on the main roads, it was a matter of sketching out the maps in his mind, trying to remember which turns to take to lead them to where the Wardens had intended to camp. They moved as quickly and incautiously as they dared, Bethany leaning against her brother, their dark heads tipped together as they walked. Anders could hear them speaking in low voices, though he couldn’t make out their words. Goodbyes? Promises? A continued argument? It wasn’t for him to know.

Varric moved alongside him. “You’re doing good, Blondie,” he murmured, Bianca cocked and ready for trouble. “As good as anyone can right now.”

“We can’t lose her,” Anders said.

“I know.”

“He wouldn’t survive it.”

Again, “I know.”

“And as selfish as it sounds, I’m not sure I could survive losing _him_ now, either.” He gripped the shaft of his staff tighter, fighting the clawing despair that wanted to rise up, howling, at the idea. Justice was restless beneath his skin, battering against the fragile cage of his body—frightened, too, of losing the man who had stormed into his life and turned it upside down.

Varric’s eyes were on him, expression twisted in open compassion; friendship. For the first time in all the months he’d known the dwarf, Anders felt as if he could truly call him _friend_. “I know,” Varric said with infinite gentleness. “Which means we’re not going to. I know stories, Blondie—tragedies, comedies, romances, and tales of valor, and I can tell you…that’s not how this one is going to end.”

“You know,” Anders said, offering a weak smile, “that’s almost comforting. Thank you, Varric. I—” Then he paused, lifting his head. He felt…something. Some awareness tickling the back of his thoughts. “Hmm,” he murmured, peering into the cavernous darkness ahead.

Several paces behind, Hawke and Bethany came to a stop. “What’s wrong?”

Ander glanced back. “I think they’re nearby,” he said. Then a sudden hiss echoed off the vaulted ceiling, made loud by the endless _space_. Varric cursed and Anders lifted his staff. “ _Or_ it could be darkspawn,” he muttered.

“Garrett,” Bethany began, but he was already leaning her carefully against a rock, out of range of Hurlock bolters.

“Keep low, Bethy,” he warned even as he unstrapped his huge greatsword. “This will be over soon.”

The first wave hit with the strength of a falling hammer. Anders threw out a quick buffing spell before flinging a fireball, calling on his deepest wells of mana as the darkspawn attacked. It was a whirlwind battle, and the three of them were already exhausted—it didn’t take long before he felt himself being driven back by the disgusting creatures, struggling to keep to his feet as he blocked and healed and threw elemental spells. Hawke moved at his side, _glorious_ in his rage. Black blood spattered his dented armor, and if they weren’t in the fight for their life, Anders may have paused to admire just how beautiful, how _primal_ he seemed.

But then a Hurlock came hurtling toward his face, filed teeth snapping, and Anders forced himself to focus.

He wasn’t sure when he became aware of the sound of other blades, of orders being shouted over the hoard, but gradually the shape of the fight changed as familiar men in familiar uniforms waded in with swords flashing. A blue-flocked arrow zipped by and caught a Genlock in the throat; it collapsed at Anders’ feet, twitching in its death throes. He looked up to meet a Warden’s quick smirk before she turned and let another arrow fly. Another. Another.

Soon the tempo of the battle slowed, then trickled to a stop. Anders leaned against his staff as Warden Stroud twisted his blade within the last darkspawn’s body, its death rattle loud in the hammering silence. Then Stroud looked up, eyes narrowing on him. “Anders,” he said.

Anders pushed back his hair; most of it had come loose in the battle. “Fancy meeting you here, Stroud,” he said in a falsely light tone. He was hyper-aware of Hawke (but then, when was he _not_ hyper-aware of Hawke?) sheathing his blade and going to his sister.

"I could say the same.” The Warden crossed his arms, frown deepening beneath the bristles of his impressive mustache. “I thought you were through fighting darkspawn.”

Anders hesitated, then glanced back, gesturing the Hawke siblings to join him. Hawke half-carried Bethany, hand gentle at her waist, eyes never leaving her face. She looked worse than she had before, skin a mottled, sickly grey, lips going blue-black. “I’m not here to fight darkspawn,” Anders murmured, trusting Stroud to piece the puzzle together. “I came looking for you.”

He straightened. “You mean…the girl as a recruit?” Stroud looked between the Hawkes and Anders, then let out a heavy, frustrated sigh. “No. Of course you do. I’m sorry,” he added, harsh voice gentling when he focused on Bethany. “I know this comes as no comfort to you, but we do not recruit Grey Wardens out of pity. It is no kindness.”

Anders could have told him that was not the wisest thing to say.

Hawke’s head jerked up, and Stroud took a sudden sharp step back. The Wardens flanking him lifted their blades, their cocked bows; Anders could only guess what kind of threat they saw in those lyrium-bright eyes. “You think it’s kinder to let Bethany die from the blight?” he snarled.

Stroud was either braver of more foolish than Anders gave him credit for: he did not back down, though his hand stayed on the hilt of his sword. “Sometimes it is, yes,” he said stubbornly.

Anders stepped in before Hawke could push back and perhaps start a whole new wave of fighting. As much as Hawke’s closed fist usually got results, Anders knew these Wardens—this was not a time for aggression. And he had not come to them without a plan. “Stroud, trust me when I say this one is worth your time. With the Blight over, you Wardens don’t have recruits lining up.”

Stroud seemed reluctant to look away from the huge, threatening warrior glowering him down…but eventually he did turn his gaze back to Anders, a thin line between his brows. “This is no simple thing, Anders. This may be as much a death sentence as the sickness, and you know it.”

_Please,_ he thought. _Please please please._

And:

_Maker forgive me for what I am about to do._ “She’ll die anyway,” he coaxed in his most earnest, most vulnerable tone. He’d been an ass to Stroud in the past; he hadn’t exactly endeared himself to any of them. But he’d also healed their hurts and watched their backs. He’d been one of them. He was still one of them, whether he liked it or not. “Take her and try…I’m asking you.” _I’m begging you._

Stroud was silent for what felt like a very long time, studying Anders’ face. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Very well,” he murmured, “I will try. But if I do this, then we are even.” 

“We are even,” Anders said. “With this, we owe each other nothing.” He clung to the words like a talisman.

“If the girl comes, she comes now, and you may not see her again,” the Warden added, gesturing sharply to Hawke. “Being a Grey Warden is not a cure. It is a calling. She will be one of us.”

Hawke tightened his grip, eyes narrowing…but he nodded. He nodded and _submitted_ in a way Anders thought he would never see. Slowly, he loosened his grip on his sister, cupping her face and turning it to press a kiss to her brow.

“Are you sure about this?” Bethany murmured shakily. “I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a Warden.”

“Please, Bethy,” he whispered back. “If this is the only way that you can live, then it has to be.”

She reached up, clasping grey-black fingers over his. Slowly, she nodded. “All right. I love you, Big Brother. More than anything.”

“More than anything,” he echoed roughly. Anders thought he might resist when Stroud came to throw one of Bethany’s arms across his shoulders, taking her weight, but Hawke pulled back and allowed it. His face was shuttered steel, but his eyes burned with loss and terror. It was like watching someone fall from a great height.

“We must move quickly if we are to make the surface in time,” Stroud said. The other Wardens were already moving, falling into formation around them. Anders knew the path they would take to the surface, and even the copse of trees they would retreat to in order to finish the ritual. There wouldn’t be time to make it all the way back to their camp in the hills—not if they wanted to make the Joining in time.

Sometimes, he thought, it was an impossible burden, knowing everything he did.

Bethany tried to smile weakly at all of them one last time. “Then… I guess this is it,” she said. “Take care of Mother. And—” Her gaze fell on Anders. “Take care of Big Brother for me.”

“We march,” Stroud said before Anders could reply, and in a flurry of movement, the Wardens hurried away, veering straight for the passage Anders had known they would take—and stealing Bethany away from them for a Joining that would mean a life of service, of battle, of never seeing her family again.

The three of them stood in complete silence. The tread of armored feet dwindled. Died.

It was over.

Hawke turned away.

“Shit,” Varric murmured, a wealth of pain in that one word. Bethany had been the brightness in all of them; her broad smile and teasing warmth had helped knit them together into a dysfunctional family—bickering and often at odds, but loving in its own way. It was hard to imagine them without her.

It was impossible to imagine _Hawke_ without her.

Anders scrubbed at his face, hating that he wasn’t even hesitating over the right or wrong of this. They’d forced Bethany’s hand, pushing her toward the Wardens when she might have chosen death. And now… Now, he wasn’t even weighing his options: his mind was set. As terrible as it made him, he had no doubts.

_This isn’t justice_ , Anders thought, moving to Hawke. And yet the spirit inside him remained quiet when he reached out to touch Hawke’s arm. Maybe Justice had become so twisted up inside of Anders that he was allowing desperate love to trump what was right. That thought of _that_ hurt too, but not enough to stay his hand. “Garrett,” Anders said.

“She’s gone.” The exhaustion and loss and bewildered _hurt_ in Hawke’s voice was a sucker-punch to the gut; it was almost enough to have him doubling over. “I’m never going to see her again.”

He wet his lips. “That isn’t necessarily true,” Anders murmured. When Hawke’s head jerked up, eyes on him, he forced himself to say, “I know where they’ll go. They’ll send the main party up ahead, to prepare the camp. The rest— _Stroud_ —will remain behind to finish the ritual as quickly as possible. There won’t be many of them. Two, maybe three, in addition to Bethany. If she makes it through the Joining— _when_ she makes it through the Joining—they will be too distracted to take note of us until it is too late.”

Hawke pulled back, visibly surprised. “Anders,” he said. “Are you suggesting we…fight the Wardens? Your friends?”

“I’m suggesting we allow them to save Bethany’s life,” Anders said, speaking each word slowly, clearly, as if somehow that would make it less of an unforgivable betrayal. He closed his eyes. “And then I am suggesting we take her back—by whatever means necessary.”

“Your friend won’t allow us to just take her,” Hawke warned. “He will fight. And if he fights me, he will die.”

Anders reached up, eyes opening, not at all surprised that Hawke was standing just a breath away—close enough that he could smell the blood and rent metal and sweat and...whatever blend of Ferelden farmboy and frustrated warrior that made Garrett _Garrett_. His palm rasped over Garrett’s jaw, eyes locked with his. He hated what he was suggesting…but he loved his twisted little family more. “Bethany is my friend,” Anders murmured. “ _You_ are my friend. I will do whatever I have to in order to save the both of you. _Whatever_ I have to,” he echoed when Garrett opened his mouth to protest.

Garrett studied him for a long, long time. Then, slowly, he reached up to grasp Anders’ wrist—but not to pull his hand away, as he’d assumed. Instead, eyes still locked on Anders’, Garrett turned his hand over and pressed a kiss into the meat of his palm. “I love you,” he murmured against the work-roughened skin.

Anders’ knees nearly gave out.

Garrett slid his other arm around Anders’ waist, pulling him close. He could feel metal biting against his skin, could feel the slick of blood, but Maker, he didn’t care. Garrett’s expression was cracked open, without guard—he was _letting him in_ , lips curling at the corners in an almost-shy smile that rocked Anders to the core. When Garrett pinned their clasped hands between their bodies, Anders swore the big warrior had to feel his heart madly pounding.

“Oh,” Anders breathed, stunned. Could it really be this simple? All this time, and all he had to do was offer Garrett Hawke his heart, his body, his soul, his conscience, his moral compass and his undying devotion…and he could have his love in return? What a paltry thing to ask of him; what an exchange so gladly given. Anders would have given him all that and more and expected nothing in return. 

…but that didn’t mean he was going to turn it _away_ now that Garrett was offering him everything he ever wanted.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” he said, trying for a crooked grin. If Varric’s low snort was anything to go by, his expression was ridiculously soppy, but he didn’t care. He was _thrilling_ inside. “I’m not sure I heard, what with all that talk of _I can’t, Anders_ and _We mustn’t, Anders_.”

Garrett shook his head and glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “My lover is a madman,” he said.

“Then the two of you are uniquely well-suited,” Varric shot back. “Now kiss dramatically, then let’s table the rest of this stirring scene and go get Sunshine back.” He adjusted Bianca thoughtfully. “Shame killing a man like Stroud. He seems like a good sort.”

“He is,” Anders said, only feeling a small lance of regret at the idea. The rest of him was too busy soaking in the feeling of one of Garrett’s big hands sliding over the back of his skull. The heat of his breath on his upturned face.

“And I’m not,” Garrett warned, as if he could possibly say anything to make Anders resist being _his_.

“Tell me something I do not already know,” he said with a crooked smile, then pushed up into the kiss, sealing their mouths together as if…as if signing his name to a contract, as if clasping hands over an earnest pact. Garrett Hawke loved him, and wanted him, and now…Anders was his. Completely. Irrevocably.

Fingers tangled in his dark hair, tongue licking deep into his hot mouth, willing to fight and kill and die for him—lost in some kind of crazy love that went deeper than questions of right or wrong, reason or madness.

He’d been marked from the moment they set eyes on each other. Who was he to fight that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...what, you thought this Hawke and Anders would let the Wardens KEEP Bethany? If she'd been taken by the Circle, the story would have become an elaborate tale of how Hawke, Anders, and co. smashed the Circle of Kirkwall, killed Meredith, and stole off with all the mages.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much <3 to Alierakieron and Roommate Anon. Thank you both so much!

Anders didn’t let himself think. That had to be the trick of it, he reasoned as they followed the trail the Wardens were sure to have taken, winding through tunnels out to final blinding light. That had to be the way he’d make it through this.

He just. Wouldn’t. Think.

And why not? He’d made it through years in the Circle and beyond _not thinking_. Even Justice seemed quiescent as they broke the surface. It was eerie, actually, how silent it felt inside his own head, as if he’d managed somehow to internalize the endless improbable space of the Deep Roads. When he tried to press on the usual lingering awareness of Justice, he felt…nothing.

Like a bruise that no longer hurt, no matter how deeply he palpated.

_This is bad_ , Anders told himself, gripping the heft of his staff as he led the way down to where Stroud must surely have taken Bethany. He could hear the Wardens’ voices drifting across cracked earth and rock. Two of them, three at most. Stroud would have sent the others ahead to their camp while he finished the Joining with as few men as possible.

_That_ was good. That would make what they had to do easier. But this? This echoing stillness in his head, this knowledge that he was doing something incredibly wrong, incredibly _unjust_ out of blinding love…and the spirit that lived inside him had nothing to say on the matter?

That was very, very, _very bad_.

…and yet all it took was a glance at Hawke and Anders was recommitted to this path. He sent a silent prayer to the Maker that he wasn’t twisting Justice beyond all recognition by his own base human desires. And then, flinching at the sound of Stroud’s voice, he cut the prayer short. He was betraying a good man today—he didn’t have the right to the Maker’s ear.

A hand fell on his shoulder and Anders jerked his head. Varric made what could only be described as a wryly sympathetic face as he crouched beside him. They were on a slope overlooking the bit of clearing where Stroud and, yes, two other Wardens were finishing the Joining. Bethany sat swaying in the dirt. In the broad daylight, her skin was nearly translucent, a muddy grey mottled with dark veins. Violet shadows circled glassy eyes, and she looked seconds away from collapsing for good. Hawke made a choked noise. The sound dug its claws into Anders, painful as the edge of a blade. All at once, the sick recriminations fell away and he had to fight to keep from reaching a soothing hand for the man he loved.

_It’ll be all right_ , he might have said. _We’ll kill these good, strong, loyal Grey Wardens and steal Bethany back; you won’t be the one to lose anything today._

Below them, Stroud crouched and held the cup to Bethany’s mouth. Anders could see his face from this angle, the bushy black mustache framing a mouth that had softened in pity as he forced Bethany to drink. His eyes were searching her face one big hand braced the back of her skull to keep her from falling until she’d drained the cup. He looked so gentle, so tender, so _merciful_ that Anders wanted to look away.

But he didn’t. Instead, he bit his mouth hard enough to taste blood and ignored the worried dance of Varric’s eyebrows. Below them, Bethany collapsed into unconsciousness-or-death and Stroud sat back on his heels with a heavy sigh. The other Wardens shifted as they waited, and Anders held his breath. He counted the seconds.

One.

Two.

Three.

Hawke was tense as granite, jaw set. Looking at him felt like rushing head-first down a mountain at impossible speeds. He couldn’t bear to think of how much it would _hurt_ if they hit rock bottom and Bethany was lost to them.

Four.

Five.

Six.

She couldn’t be lost. If she didn’t survive the Joining, then Hawke would surely lose himself to darkness, and Anders would follow blindly down the rabbit hole the way he knew he would always follow Hawke. He was tethered to the other man in a way that could never be broken or denied, bound more tightly than to the spirit living in his flesh. If Bethany was lost, they were all lost.

Seven.

Eight. 

Nine.

_Please_ , Anders prayed to no one, everyone. His breath came in a shallow rattle, painful as it scraped through his body. He was holding so still, so _hard_ that it would surely hurt to move. _Please please please._

Ten.

Below them, sprawled across cracked red dirt, Bethany began to stir. The relief was almost strong enough to send _him_ tumbling into a swoon. Black motes danced before his eyes and he looked up to meet Hawke’s fierce gaze. Hawke gave a faint nod, expression relaxing, and Anders tipped his head in return. Obstacle one, cleared. Now they just needed to get her _back_. Stroud stayed crouched next to Bethany, sword unstrapped six paces away. The other two Wardens were focused on her still but clearly _still-living_ form. Anders gripped his staff tight and waited for the signal.

When it came, he lurched to his feet and called down a storm of fire without hesitation, knowing that if he gave himself a moment to question what he was doing—if he let himself think of that man below as a once-companion—he would crumble.

_You’ve made your choice_ , Anders told himself, walling off his heart against Stroud’s shocked cry…and focusing instead on Hawke’s bellow as he swept into the makeshift camp toward his beloved sister, giant sword swinging, the light of wrath in his beautiful lyrium-bright eyes.

_Now you go about living with it._

**

Bethany, thank the Maker, stayed insensate through it all.

She was still but breathing during the desperate fighting and its immediate aftermath. She did not move as Anders checked her over before Hawke allowed him to use the last of his mana to heal _his_ wounds—many and varied, as Stroud was no easy match. Anders stayed by her side, absently brushing dark hair back from her pale but healthy-looking face as Hawke and Varric disguised the scene

(Varric’s idea, to make it look like a Darkspawn attack in a bid to avoid a counter from the remaining Wardens)

and covered their trail. By the time Hawke came to lift his sister into his arms, she was breathing deep and even, her cheeks flushed with color again, her lashes moving as she sank into what Anders knew was only the first of many dreams.

There was so much he had to tell her about being a Warden. But later. Thanks to his duplicity, there would be time for that _later_.

The three of them fell into step, Hawke cradling Bethany against his big body, Varric and Anders carrying their weight in gold taken from the hidden thaig. The sun was slowly beginning to sink toward the West and the road back to Kirkwall was abandoned, though Anders couldn’t help but imagine each rut or track had been caused by the original expedition. It was…surreal, to say the least, heading back toward the city sort-of victorious. Varric trailed behind them from time to time, fondling his crossbow and muttering about what he’d do to Bartrand when he found “that good-for-nothing nug-humping asshole.”

Anders glanced over his shoulder with a worried quirk of his brows, then mentally shrugged and turned back to the road. He’d worry about that, too, later. He tilted his chin toward Hawke, intending to give him another quick once-over, and nearly stumbled when he caught Hawke watching him intently out of the corner of his eyes.

Maker, that steady appraisal felt like a touch. “Yes?” he murmured, looking down, not daring to meet Hawke’s eyes. It felt, weirdly, like an intrusion right now—like Hawke and the unconscious Bethany deserved some sort of privacy. 

_Or maybe_ , an insidious part of him whispered, _you’re simply too ashamed of the man you proved yourself to be today._

“Thank you,” Hawke said simply. That was enough to drag his gaze back, and they shared a long, heavy look—weighted strongly with layers upon layers of meaning.

Anders wet his lips, unsure of what to say. Before, in the darkness of the Deep Roads, they had come to an accord. Anders had been _his_. Now…he was afraid to ask where things stood. He was afraid that whatever had been between them was transitory, there and gone again now that Hawke was no longer so desperately afraid.

What would he do if it turned out Hawke did not want him after all?

But, void take him, that was a stupid question. If Hawke no longer wanted him—if it had all been a mistake—then he would go on as he had before, loving from a distance and willing to give everything he was for a chance at a kind word. A look. A _touch_. He had no choice. This love was like a madness.

“You’re welcome,” Anders said, turning his head to stare straight ahead again. Now wasn’t the time to ask Hawke for reassurances anyway. He’d…give it time. Space. Hawke would take Bethany to ground once they reached Kirkwall again. Anders had seen it happen once or twice before, when Bethany had experienced a close call fighting Sharpes Highwaymen or a carta thug. He’d practically lock them both in Gamlen’s little hovel and hunch protectively around his family for the days—weeks?—it would take for him to feel like they were safe again.

Like an abused mabari; it was so strange, Anders mused, that he could love someone who could in so many ways be more dog than man.

And where that left him was…waiting. For Hawke to regroup, to feel safe again. For Hawke to come to him and decide whether it had all been a mistake. Whether he wanted Anders now that the danger had passed.

Whether he was willing, Anders thought with a sinking heart, to take the risk of loving one more person who could be lost to him forever…knowing deep in his heart that, thanks to the taint, there was a time limit on any happiness they could ever hope to share.

That in itself seemed like an ill omen for their future; that seemed like its own sort of answer. All he need do was wait for Hawke to reason himself out of love and every bit of hope he was clinging to would slip away from his grasp…for good this time. And there was nothing he could do. But. Wait.

Maker grant him strength.

**

“I’m taking her home,” Hawke said as the shadow of Kirkwall fell over them. He barely glanced at either of them—his attention had been on his sister ever since she’d groggily awakened. Now she stood in his shadow, so subdued she was like a ghost. “We’ll be there until…”

He paused, jaw tightening. “We’ll be there. Varric?”

“Right,” Varric said, taking Anders by the elbow. He needn’t have bothered—Anders wasn’t going to protest. He wasn’t going to follow Hawke like a lost kitten, or throw himself at his feet, or make an embarrassing spectacle.

Even if his heart was breaking as he watched Hawke and Bethany walk away, he wasn’t going to do any of those things. It seemed, somehow, he’d managed to scrape together a little bit of dignity after all. “I have a lot of work to do,” he said, mostly to himself. He’d have to let that be enough for now.

**

_Two Weeks Later…_

It was well past midnight and the last refugee had finally left the clinic. Anders stood by the creaking double doors, looking out across Darktown with a weary sort of satisfaction before turning back to the dim room.

Maker, he was exhausted.

He ran a hand over his face, not at all surprised to realize it was trembling. The morning had started out promising enough—a new shipment of elfroot had arrived, and the smuggler had promised in a low voice that more lyrium would soon follow. He’d managed to spend a full night without dreaming about Hawke for once, Varric was blessedly too busy to be underfoot, a breeze was blowing off the sea to chase away the interminable heat, and the line of needy waiting for the clinic to open its doors was surprisingly short.

“Well, look at that,” Marta had said with a crooked smile. “Looks like the Maker’s seen fit to give us an easy time of it today.”

“Don’t you curse us with your fool words,” her sister, Elna, scolded. The women were Ferelden refugees, fled together to Kirkwall after the loss of Ostagar. A single bulging purse had been all they’d managed to save from their family’s booming wool trade, but it had been enough to see them into the City of Chains and ensconced within the slums of Lowtown. He never would have been able to keep the clinic running without their help. There were times during these long, painful, Hawkless weeks that he wasn’t sure he’d have survived without them—and yes, fine, Varric—at all. “The moment you start flapping your jaw about how _good_ we’ve got it is the moment the ground crumbles under our feet.”

Anders wasn’t particularly superstitious, but even he had to agree—though perhaps not out loud. “Let’s focus on seeing to the sick,” he’d said mildly, taking the arm of a hobbling old woman and helping her to one of the low tables. “We’ll worry about the Maker’s gaze later.”

“Oh, there’ll be plenty to worry about,” Elna warned, tutting over her first patient. “Just you wait.”

They hadn’t had to wait long.

Less than an hour into the day, a low rumble began to build from somewhere deep in the bowels of Darktown. It was quiet enough—distant enough—that Anders was barely aware of it at first. “Could you check to see how we’re doing on bandages?” he called to Elna, gently palpating a wound. When the woman didn’t respond, Anders looked up, a faint frown puckering his brow. “Elna?”

She was standing by the clinic door. There was something about her posture that immediately had the hairs along his arms standing up. “Excuse me,” Anders murmured to his patient; he wiped his hands clean on a cloth and moved to join her in the doorway. From here, the faint rumble sounded like the distant growl of dragon’s breath, rising from the nearby shaft that led straight down to the deepest pit of Darktown. Whatever it was, it was coming from there.

“What do you figure it is?” Elna murmured. She was twisting her fingers together anxiously, face an open question.

Anders shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. It was growing louder and louder the longer they stood there, steady drone building in urgency; and then, suddenly, the ground began to buck wildly beneath their feet.

“Maker!” Elna gasped, slamming back against the doorframe. Anders cursed and tried to grab for her elbow even as he was thrown off his feet. The hard-packed dirt _shuddered_ beneath him, twisting and heaving, and he was a ship at sea—tossed on endless waves and powerless to do anything about it.

There was a deafening _crack_ from somewhere deep in the tunnels. A single voice rose from the shaft, multiplied, until comingled cries were echoing up from the belly of Darktown, spilling out of its deepest pits as dust rose in a heavy sheet and bits of rock and loose debris came skittering down the walls. For a frightened minute, Anders was sure all of Hightown would come crashing down on them; the pillars that bore the city’s weight seemed to creak beneath the sudden intense _pressure._

And then, all at once, the world went still. Silent. Anders looked up, nails dug helplessly into the earth; his hair had come partially loose from its queue, and dirt choked his lungs. Maker, _what was that?_

“Marta? Elna? Is everyone all right?” Anders asked. As if in answer, far below, where the poorest wretches of Kirkwall slept and fucked and struggled just to get by, came a sudden sound like ironbark splitting, rocks rumbling…and the screaming began anew.

“A foundation snapped,” Marta gasped, staggering up from where she’d been braced against a table. There was a trickle of blood navigating the broad planes of her face. “I’d stake my life on it.”

Anders pulled himself to his feet, taking Elna’s hand and tugging her up with him. The desperate cries echoed all around, screams and groans and pleas for help blending into desperate rising ululations. Maker, how many had been injured within the span of a few minutes? A dozen? Two dozen? More?

How many had been killed?

Anders staggered out of the clinic and caught the eye of the boy he recognized as one of Varric’s standing guard, gesturing him over. The boy looked pale beneath the dirt caking his face. “I want you to grab as many of your friends as you can find,” Anders said. “Go as deep into the tunnels as is safe and start urging the healthy to bring the injured here.”

He hesitated. “But I was told—”

There wasn’t time for this. “Go!” he snapped, feeling blue fire behind his words.

The boy sucked in a sharp breath and darted away.

“Marta! Elna!” he called over the thundering of his own heart, tying back his hair and rolling up the sleeves of his dingy grey robe. They wouldn’t have much time. “Get two triage stations set up at the east and west flankers. Send someone to find Tomas and tell him he’s to man the doors—funnel the most critical cases to me.”

“On it!” Marta called, steering toward the leftmost cluster of tables.

“Understood!” Elna said, veering right.

Anders allowed himself a moment to take a steadying breath, willing the rapid staccato of his heartbeat to still and Justice to go quiet again. Whatever that had been—earthquake, apostate spell gone awry, deliberate charges set to hollow out another warren of tunnels in the already rotted center of this place—the cost would be high. It would be Amaranthine all over again.

Whoever had done this would pay.

No. No, he didn’t have time to think like that. Anders shook himself out and crouched to unlock the chest containing stockpiles of precious lyrium. Hawke’s patronage made sure he had more than his fair share, on the assurance that he would never overdo it. Today, he was fairly sure he was going to be breaking that earnest promise.

He tucked three bottles into pouches at the waist of his robe, hesitated…then took three more.

The injured started pouring in mere minutes later, before they could finish their preparations. They were a staggering, desperate sea of humanity. There were _so many_ of them that Anders froze in surprise, momentarily caught off guard. Maker, how could they possibly see to so many people? As each second ticked by, more and more were starting to pile in. Standing at the crest of them, Anders could see out into Darktown, where injured men and women were staggering up from the collapsed tunnels; their faces were slick with blood. Their need was like a swinging hammer.

_This is too much_ , Anders thought desperately. _One man can’t hope to make a difference in the face of this._

Justice flared within his chest again—in warning or reassurance, he couldn’t say. The familiar blue-white fire filled him, and as it did, he felt his heart beginning to slow, his racing thoughts beginning to steady. He could do this. He had to do this.

No matter what it took.

Straightening, Anders took a deep breath, eyes scanning the chaotic mass of blood-streaked faces, crushed limbs, huddled bodies…and purposefully strode into the heart of the storm, healing magic already curling about his clenched fists.

Now, nine bottles of lyrium and fifteen long hours later, it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He hadn’t felt this wrung dry since the day he’d stumbled from the Warden camp, muck of the Deep Roads still streaking his skin, an old friend’s blood on his hands.

He shoved that thought aside and carefully locked it away again.

Anders looked about.

The clinic echoed in its emptiness, patients and volunteers long gone. Its dirt floors were stained black and sodden, its tables streaked with gore. They’d done their best to wipe stations down between patients, but the endless wave of humanity had been relentless. He moved, slow and creaky as an old man, to see to one now, grabbing a rag and dragging it across pitted wood. The blood had sunk deep into the cracks and crevices. There was almost no way it wouldn’t stain.

Anders let out an unsteady breath and rubbed at his eyes, knuckles digging into the tired sockets. His sleeves, he noticed, were soiled too—delicate tendrils of red traced their way up the drab grey like fine embroidery. A few drops still quivered amongst his bedraggled feather pauldrons like jewels.

Maker, his nails were caked in it, he realized, curling and uncurling a fist. Rust-brown lines ran along the creases in his palm.

If he was the sort who kept a mirror (wore bright robes and dangling gold hoops in his ears) what nightmare visage would be peering back at him now? Was his face as sallow and lifeless as the corpse Justice had once possessed? Were his eyes as hollow, lips as cracked, expression as void of youth and vitality?

_What a cesspit I’ve made of my life_ , Anders thought, dropping both palms to the table and leaning his full weight forward. He dipped his head, bedraggled golden strands (flecked in red, too, because he was nothing if not thoroughly wrecked) falling in a filthy curtain about his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and dragged in a serrated breath and _ached_ down to his old-before-their-time bones.

_This_ , he thought, _is what dying in slow motion feels like._

Then a big hand closed softly over the back of his neck, making Anders start and jerk up, heart all at once jackhammering. He’d never even heard the doors open. But Hawke ( _Hawke_ ) just held on tight, not letting him wheel around, and murmured in that low, rumbling voice of his, “Peace, Anders. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not,” Anders said immediately, too bone-sore and stripped bare for artifice. “I just didn’t expect you. I thought…” The words came before he could swallow them back, dark fears spilled messily between them in this moment of weakness. “I thought you might be done with me for good, after… After what happened.”

“ _Never_.”

A strong thumb dug into the tight clench of muscle at the base of his skull. It circled once, and then again—a solid pressure that _hurt_ before it soothed. Anders was strung so tight that he flinched against the touch, but he didn’t draw away. He’d die before he did that.

Up. Down. Kneading into knots of tension as big as a fist. Anders dropped his hands to the table again and leaned his weight against his arms, eyes sliding shut. Chest rising and falling in long, hitching breaths.

He could stay like this forever.

It was strange, how gentle Hawke could be when he chose. Those big hands, that massive bulk—he could rip through gangs of thugs and tear them limb from limb, but he could also soothe. He could quiet. Anders felt himself responding all the way down to his toes, muscles unspooling as _those hands_ massaged away the tension. He had no idea what had brought Hawke here tonight after two weeks of silence. He—

No. No, that wasn’t true, was it? He knew _exactly_ what had drawn Hawke here. It was that core of unexpected gentleness that brought him—that desire to make sure his strange menagerie of friends were all safe and accounted for. It was the same instinct that had led Hawke to pluck Merrill out of her alienage hovel and find her a place at the Hanged Man, near Varric. It was the same drive that had him constantly snarling at anyone who so much as looked at Bethany. Garrett Hawke was a brute, but he loved hard and well, and he _took care of_ the people he considered _his_.

And Anders, no doubt about it, was Hawke’s, body and soul. Even if it turned out Hawke no longer wanted him.

“Thank you,” Anders murmured, voice coming out low and husky.

Hawke paused, fingers a warm pressure along the nape of Anders’ neck, big body hovering close enough to almost chase away the bitter edge of his exhaustion. He was so still for so long that Anders almost blurted out an apology. _I’m not trying to push_. But then all at once, Hawke’s other big hand was on him, pushing past the stretched neck of Anders’ robes to soothe down exposed skin. Callouses rasped along the knobs of his spine, dipping dangerously low, and the _noise_ that spilled out of Anders, Maker…

“Sorry,” Anders murmured, mortified. His voice was thick, choked. Breathless. Void take him, he hoped Hawke heard exhaustion there and not…

…not the slow, inevitable uncoiling of heat that shivered through him in the wake of the big warrior’s touch. His skin was _alive_ and he could feel each crease and callous against him, ah, fuck.

“How bad was it today?” Hawke, at least, seemed willing to pretend he couldn’t feel Anders steadily unspooling beneath his grip. Those _hands_ pushed the neck of his robe back further, baring more skin. Anders shivered and bit the inside of his mouth.

He was getting hard. He was so exhausted his legs felt like water and he was sure any moment he would collapse forward, but he was _hard_ , responding to Hawke as helplessly as ever. It didn’t seem fair that Hawke could do this to him. It didn’t seem fair that Anders had to find his kindness as appealing as his aggression.

Hawke paused, hands stilling, and Anders had to shake himself free of the fog that had settled over him. Maker, what had he asked? “Bad,” Anders managed. His knees knocked together, and his arms were trembling as he fought to keep himself from slumping helplessly forward. He could feel the heat being cast off Hawke’s body, surrounding him, subsuming him. He wanted to curl up in that warmth and never come out. “We didn’t lose any, but that’s only because the worst of them never made it to the clinic in time. I couldn’t heal anyone completely—I didn’t have the mana to waste. There’s going to be a lot more beggars in the streets with brand new scars.”

“You can’t save everyone,” Hawke murmured; both hands dropped to Anders’ waist, grip going tight, and it took everything Anders had not to arch like a cat. He wanted to fall back against Hawke’s broad chest so badly it was its own sort of ache. He’d _missed_ him.

“I can try,” he said, hands fisting on the filthy table. He should be fighting this, he knew. He shouldn’t let himself be enjoying the simple pleasure of contact as much as he was.

But…but _fuck_ it felt good. Bone-weary, drained to the last dregs, the simple pleasure of heat sparking low in his belly was a relief. It beat back the heavy grey threatening to overwhelm him, made his heart lurch in the fragile cage of his chest. With Hawke’s hands on him, Anders felt _alive_. He needed that, right now.

And Hawke—big, brutish, terrible Hawke, feared by the city who loved him just as desperately—knew it. He had to. Why else would he span those huge hands across Anders’ shoulder blades? Why else would he be—oh Andraste’s soul—unfastening the worn clasps that kept Anders’ ragged robe in place?

Anders made a low, questioning noise, shivering at the solid rasp of knuckles brushing his bare chest. He reached up (to help? Certainly not to _stop_ Hawke; he may have been half dead to the world, but he’d never dream of denying Garrett whatever he wanted) hands briefly, awkwardly tangling with Hawke’s. Hawke just snorted and batted them away.

“Peace,” he said. He’d moved forward that last breath of space and was pressed warm and solid against Anders’ back, cradling him in the heavy cage of his arms. His breath was hot against the skin rapidly being exposed by those surprisingly nimble fingers. Anders had to bite the inside of his mouth _hard_ to muffle a low cry. “You do too much. Relax.”

“ _Relax_?” Anders gave a breathless, slightly unhinged laugh. It went strangled in his throat when Hawke’s calloused fingers rasped over the now-bared flesh of his belly. A knuckle slid along the golden trail of hair, dragging maddeningly slow to the divot of his belly button, the waist of his smalls. Anders squeezed his eyes shut and let himself be drawn back more fully into Hawke’s arms. His robes slid from his shoulders and dropped to the floor in a solid _whump._ His breath came in unsteady pants.

If he weren’t so exhausted, he thought with a full body shudder, this slow, careful undressing could very well be enough to make him come—and Justice be damned.

Not that Justice seemed inclined to protest Hawke’s thumbs dipping into the waist of Anders’ smalls and dragging them down his skinny hips. When it came to Hawke, Justice always seemed as eager as Anders. What a strange power this man held.

“Relax,” Hawke murmured again, voice a soft, warm puff of breath against Anders’ shoulders. His smalls slid down his thighs, leaving him exposed. Naked. _Shivering_ at the delicious feeling that somehow managed to chase away the memory of blood and soot and death. “You do too much. Let someone take care of you for a change.”

Anders closed his eyes and fell back fully against the solid wall of Hawke’s chest. Naked, exposed, cock painfully hard and breath coming in quick, unsteady pants—his entire body was _alive_. He was hyperaware of the rasp of Hawke’s still-clothed chest against his back. Of Hawke’s huge hands framing the delicate wings of his hipbones. Of Hawke’s mouth near his ear, each breath stirring the loose strands of Anders’ hair.

Of Hawke, Hawke, always bloody _Hawke_.

“And what,” Anders managed, voice pitched low and strained with comingled exhaustion and desire; this was the worst possible tease, “do you plan to do with me?”

He tried for acerbic, untouched. He couldn’t have sounded more shaken.

Hawke paused, grip tightening on him—almost hard enough to bruise, and fuck, that sent its own firestorm through his shuddering frame—then slowly relaxing. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Anders’ bare shoulder, impossibly sweet. “You can trust me,” he murmured.

Anders didn’t even have to think before he had his reply. “You know I do.” It came out too breathless, too _emotional_. Too stripped bare and honest. “But I can’t let myself need this so badly if you’re just going to turn me away.”

Behind him, Hawke went very still.

There was a long, impossibly fraught silence.

Anders dropped his hands to Hawke’s, ready to delicately pry them away, to pull the tattered and bloody robe around him once more. He shouldn’t have said it—he’d promised himself he wouldn’t push—but now that it was in the open between them, he couldn’t face Hawke without at least some shred of his usual armor.

“Hawke,” Anders began, fighting to keep his voice light. “If you’re done playing nursemaid to the tired apostate, I think— _void!_ ”

The last was startled out of him, breathless and sharp, when Hawke—with no warning—suddenly twisted and slung him up into impossibly strong arms. The world passed in a dizzy blur, bleeding at the edges as Anders was lifted up as easily as a babe, pressed tight against the warrior’s massive chest.

“I’ve been going about this all wrong,” Hawke said, mostly to himself. “And I didn’t even realize. Bethany always said I was shit at feelings; I’ll do better.” His jaw tightened. “I’ll make this better.”

Anders cleared his throat. “Ah,” he said, fighting the flush that was threatening to immolate him from the inside out. “Ah, Hawke? What are you—”

“Hush,” Hawke said, kicking aside the filthy detritus that had been Anders’ clothes—pausing just long enough to tug off Anders’ boots and let those drop, too—before turning and striding purposefully toward the door.

The door beyond which lay all of Darktown and any number of refugees, cutpurses, and Coterie who, within just ten paces, would see a great deal more of Anders than he’d ever imagined.

“Hawke!” he squawked, voice cracking embarrassingly high, nails digging into firm muscle. “What the void are you doing?”

Hawke made a low noise and Anders’ gaze snapped to him, meeting those lyrium blue eyes. What he read there made his heart crack like the shell of a geode to reveal something bright and beautiful. Hawke’s lips were twitching and his eyes were warm and that love…that love was _still there_ despite all the odds. “You _ass_ ,” Anders laughed in a near-hysterical reversal of emotion, spilling over with sudden messy joy. His world was reorienting so abruptly that he was dizzy with it. He smacked a fist as hard as he could against a broad shoulder; Hawke didn’t flinch. Of _course_ he didn’t. “You’re _laughing at me._ ”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Hawke promised with one of his rare wide, dazzling grins. He kicked the door open, and Anders winced when it crashed against the far wall. The man, it seemed, had never mastered the art of subtlety. “Not with your assets so clearly on display.”

He was _still_ a bit more than half-hard; clearly he had lost his mind.

“Ah, Blondie,” Varric—Varric! Leaning on the wall outside the clinic door, cleaning his nails with a knife. Beside him, Isabella hid a snicker and Merrill peered at him in open interest—said. “Glad to see you’re _perking up_ after such a hard day.”

Isabela cackled; Merrill cocked her head. Anders hid his face against Hawke’s shoulder, flushing hot all over…and grinning like an _idiot_. He had the worst friends, but he couldn’t even bring himself to care. “I hate you all,” he muttered.

“Nonsense,” Isabela tutted. “You’re mad for us. Well. _One_ of us, at least.”

“Bela,” Hawke warned, coming to a stop at the hidden entrance to the old Amell estate. It was already open and waiting for them. “No teasing.”

She made a face. “Oh _balls_ , you’re no fun.”

Anders burrowed deeper into Hawke’s broad chest. Varric laughed. “Come on, then, it’s cleaning crew for us. Don’t worry, Blondie,” he added as he moved to close the door behind them. “By the time you return, your clinic will be good as new. Better, probably—could have done with a Spring freshening long before now, eh?”

“Next time you lot need a wound closed,” Anders muttered to himself, “you’d better find yourselves another apostate.”

Isabela tossed him a noisy kiss, followed by a rude gesture, before sashaying into his clinic. Merrill followed on her heels, and Varric moved to close up the “hidden” entranceway. A lazy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and Anders had to look away and bite the inside of his mouth to control the impulse to smile _back_. Had he really been beaten down and flayed to the bone only minutes ago? Hawke’s hands on him, Hawke holding him, Hawke _all around_ him seemed to have chased the ghost of the day away. The roughness of his dark leathers against Anders’ bare skin was warm and familiar and somehow the best thing he’d ever felt. If he turned his face, there was a broad shoulder to press into; when he shifted, a bulging bicep cradled his spine.

He felt so…

So…

So _safe._ The world was going so very quiet inside, soft as the _click_ of a latch falling into place as Varric slid the entranceway closed and they were left in darkness.

Anders drew in a shaky breath and—daring much and yet nothing at all—rested his temple against the strong join of Hawke’s neck and shoulder. He could hear the strong heartbeat like a drum in the dark. When Hawke drew in a breath, Anders could feel it against his stubbled cheek; he shivered.

Hawke’s grip on him tightened.

“So,” Anders began, voice embarrassingly low. Hawke just made an amused noise and began to move through the darkness as if he knew the path well, heading down the long hall toward the cellar where they’d shared their first moment of true understanding. “I still don’t know the plan here. Please note how I’m not protesting or questioning your will.”

“I do hate when you do that,” Hawke agreed mildly.

Anders’ lips twitched. “You do hate that. But I’m not questioning. I’m not protesting. I’m merely noting that you’ve taken my clothes—”

“Which you should be thanking me for, considering they’re no longer fit for scraps.”

“—and you paraded me around in front of our friends, completely nude—”

“It could have been Fenris, Sebastian and Aveline, you realize; you’re welcome.”

“—and now you’re whisking me up into the abandoned mansion that, according to a very good source, was still blood-stained from the _last_ time you came through.” The very good source being Bethany, of course. 

Maker, Bethany. 

Varric had been feeding him information on her recovery over the last two weeks. It had been slow and hard—Hawke and Leandra had been sticking to her like burs as she slowly adjusted to the taint. Anders had wanted to offer his own expertise, but he’d been too nervous to venture into the Hawke household. Too anxious and frightened to see Hawke again and learn for certain whether or not Hawke truly meant what he had said.

All that fear, it turned out, for nothing. He wondered, now, whether Varric sticking so close these last two weeks had been Hawke’s doing too. Had Hawke asked the dwarf to watch over him when he could not? Now that he let himself think like that, it seemed…very much like something Garrett Hawke would do.

Being in love was terrible. Anders ducked his head and filled his lungs with the scent of leather and metal and _Hawke_ and loved every moment of it. “Are there going to be bodies sprawled about like in Fenris’s mansion?” he muttered, talking just to fill the silence. If he didn’t, the sound of Hawke’s steady heartbeat would be enough to have him shuddering out of his skin. If Hawke wanted him, if Hawke was taking him somewhere private, did that mean there was going to be kissing?

He really, really hoped there would be kissing. 

“Do you _both_ decorate by throwing corpses around like throw rugs? Because, I have to say, if that’s the case, I may have to raise a protest at this abduction.”

Hawke made a bemused noise. “You babble when you get nervous,” he pointed out. “Hush.”

That single word had all the ring of a command, deep and gravel-rough and curling through his blood. Anders shivered against Hawke’s big body and bit his mouth at the curl of heat that unfurled low in his belly. _Make me_ , he almost said…but no. He’d save that for later.

They were heading up stairs too dark for Anders to see more than a grey-black blur, away from the cellar. The stuffy weight that he associated with being underground seemed to fall away by degrees, and when he drew in an unsteady breath, his lungs were filled with a surprisingly bright, _clean_ scent. Like citrus and mint and astringent. Far above, a thin bar of light framed the cellar doorway; it seemed to dance as Anders focused on it, light shifting and coalescing with each step they took.

And then Hawke was reaching out to throw open the door—and they were stepping into a hall bathed in golden light.

The Amell estate had clearly been beautiful once upon a time. The bones of the old house were beautiful still, a large (lit) fireplace taking up one wall, hugely tall windows peering down at them from the upper landing like curious eyes. The bannister was carved wood, matched by beams that ran the length of the vaulted ceiling. The floor was an intricate herringbone of expensive stone in shades of camel and taupe.

And yet time and misuse had stripped away layers of the old home’s beauty. The Antivan silk wallpaper was peeling away in great sheets. The tile was cracked, whole sections missing to reveal scarred wood beneath, like rotten teeth. Even the cheerfully bright fireplace had been battered by the rough sort who had used this place as their base: the mantle had all but fallen, fissures running from where it hung precariously up the plaster face of the wall. Its hull was black as pitch and half as inviting.

It hurt, strangely, to see this place that shouldn’t have meant anything to him so ragged. It hurt to think of how Hawke must feel, seeing his mother’s home stained with blood that no amount of scrubbing had removed and knowing that, in another lifetime, this could have all been his.

“Hawke,” Anders began, fingers tentatively curling around the back of his neck—but Hawke shook his sympathy off with an annoyed noise and kicked the cellar door shut. The loud _bang_ reverberated through the high-ceilinged hall, underscored by the merry crack of flames.

They crossed the cracked tiles as if they meant nothing. A large and badly dented bronze tub had been dragged down before the fire, Anders noted. It had seen better days (better decades), but the light danced over what looked to be hot, _clean_ water, and steam rose in delicate curls over the dulled edges. Anders tightened his grip on Hawke, dying to say something and afraid of whatever nonsense would come pouring out of his mouth if he gave into the temptation. There was a folded towel at the end of the tub, and what looked to be a loose once-white shirt and—

“Did you fish those out of a random barrel somewhere?” Anders asked, eyeing the badly mended trousers, certain he recognized them from one of their many adventures. Hawke just made a noncommittal noise and gently (gently, _gently_ ) lowered Anders into the water.

The heat was incredible—just hot enough to make him hiss in a breath, then let it out on a sigh. The clean water went cloudy the moment he was submerged, but _Maker_ , Anders couldn’t bring himself to care. He sank down, eyes falling closed in perfect bliss as Hawke pulled away and the water rose up to his tipped-back chin. The tub was big enough that he could uncoil, even if he couldn’t stretch out completely. It was so deep that he was hidden completely, soft waves covering and revealing his shoulders as he hunched them forward, then slowly rolled them back in a desperately-needed release of tension.

His own sorry excuse for a hipbath was barely big enough to crouch in sitting straight up-right. He had to fill a cracked bowl and sluice water over himself if he wanted to feel clean—and even then, he could never seem to do it without a flare of guilt over how much he was wasting in the name of his own comfort. Anders couldn’t remember the last time he had unspooled within an actual _bath_ , steam rising around his face, filling his lungs with every gradually evening breath.

Oh, how he had needed this.

“Thank you,” Anders murmured, keeping his eyes shut. He was very aware of Hawke standing over him—a shadow cast against the brightly dancing fire.

And then Hawke crouched next to him and gently took Anders’ chin between his fingers. Anders allowed his head to be turned, lashes flickering open—meeting Hawke’s steady, fierce gaze with all the desperate love in his heart.

“I messed up,” Hawke said, very seriously. “I thought you understood. These last few weeks have been about getting Bethany back on her feet, but I should have been making sure _you_ were okay too. I won’t make that mistake again.” He slid his hand around to cup the back of Anders’ neck, thumb sliding up into his hair. The sheer weight of his attention was enough to send heat unspooling through his body again; he gasped and arched his hips, hot water lapping the edges of the tub. He was still hard, body throwing off sparks—but more than that, so much more, his heart was winging like a wild thing in his chest, pounding so frantically he feared it might give out. 

“You are mine,” Hawke said, refusing to let Anders look away. “And I am yours. I love you. I will always protect you. You will live by my side and die many, many years from now in my arms, and I will flay the flesh from anyone who tries to say differently. Do you understand?”

_Fuck_. He was alive with longing. 

“Anders,” Hawke said, dark brows knitting into a ferocious—gorgeous—frown. “Do you understand?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Anders breathed—and it didn’t seem strange at all to surge up against the cold metal of the tub and dig wet fingers into Hawke’s thick hair. To pull Hawke’s mouth down to his. To submit immediately, gratefully, to the swipe of Hawke’s tongue and the sudden, fierce, _claiming_ kiss that felt eerily like a bargain struck.

Perhaps Hawke was a demon after all. But, tongues tangling slick and hot together…Anders couldn’t seem to find it in himself to care.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains brief and minor breath play with no safe-word (or really any kind of BDSM good practices; please please please do not use these two as a template for a SS&C BDSM relationship! They are doing it all wrong). If that squicks you out, please do not read!

Hawke kissed the way he did everything else: as if laying siege.

Anders felt shaken, swept up, swept away. _Conquered_ , void have him, as if he hadn’t been flying a white flag since the first day they met. He was whittled down to rasping gasps and little bucks of his hips, every atom of his body responding in turn. Hawke’s rough fingers in his hair, Hawke’s mouth on his, Hawke’s tongue delving deep, deeper. He pulled at tangled golden strands and Anders let his head fall back in immediate surrender, jaws _aching_ as Hawke hungrily took everything.

_Everything._

It was a kind of madness. He was arched into a bow, legs moving with shuddering jerks in the cooling water; he was _moaning_ as Hawke kissed the breath from his body. The swipe of his tongue, the hard thrust of it, the way he growled deep in his chest… Anders whimpered and writhed to get closer, entire body lighting up at that gravel-deep sound.

Fuck, he was turned on.

_Please oh please oh please_. He curled his fingers around the edge of the tub, knuckles bleeding white as one kiss bled into another, another. The slick sound of their mouths meeting was nearly drowned out by the lap of water and the thundering of his heart. His skin was surely three sizes too small; his lungs had shrunk until he couldn’t breathe. Black light flared behind his lids in warning. Anders could feel Justice rumbling somewhere far enough away that it didn’t feel like it was a part of him—not the way Hawke’s teeth raking his tongue was a part of him. Not the way Hawke’s nails scraping across his scalp was a part of him. Not the way the desperate, crazy love winging its way through his heart was a part of him, was all of him, was… Was…

He jerked, darkness creeping along his vision, and simply arched into the kiss all the more. He would take whatever Hawke gave him and beg for it never to end; whatever pride he’d once had was long gone. Now? Now he was only _need_.

Hawke seemed to sense the change in the tight clench of his body, however. He pulled back just enough to let Anders drag in a heaving breath. Those lips—that _tongue_ —slid along the sharp curve of his jaw, rasping over stubble before sliding down to the frenetic thrum at the hollow of his throat. He swirled his tongue to its ragged beat and smiled against Anders’ skin at the broken moan that earned him.

“You’re so fucking responsive,” Hawke murmured. His _voice_ was enough to make Anders’ cock jerk in response. Anders spread his thighs in blatant, shameless invitation, riding the reverberation of Hawke’s chuckle with a heartfelt shudder. “I bet I could make you come without even touching you.”

“No.” Anders paused and licked his lips. It was nearly impossible to speak; he felt as if Hawke had somehow learned Fenris’s trick of punching fists through flesh. Never before had he _literally_ felt that someone held his heart in their hand. “I…no.”

There was a long, dangerous silence before Hawke lifted his head. “No?” he said simply.

“Not like _that_ , you great arsehole,” Anders said, reaching out to drag his fingers through long dark hair. He snapped the queue holding back Hawke’s hair, letting his fingers scratch along his scalp. Hawke tipped his head into the caress, practically purring in response. Maker. “What I mean is…ah, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

“Then tell me.” He turned his face, lips, tongue, _teeth_ teasing the vulnerable stretch of Anders’ inner wrist. The very tip of Hawke’s tongue tracing along the exposed veins shouldn’t have made his cock jerk in response, but Maker, there was nothing about this man that was like it should be. He bit the pale skin, then hungrily sucked away the sting, stealing a high-pitched whine from Anders’ chest.

Just…

_Fuck_.

“Hawke,” Anders gasped, hips rolling unsteadily. He could feel Justice beginning to push forward as his body strained toward the other man. It was just like all those times alone in his bunk; it was just like with Jethann in the brothel what felt like a lifetime ago. He was _aching_ , so hard a single touch would surely be enough to send him over the falls, broken open and panting and wanting…and Justice was all at once there to shoulder aside that desire the moment it became its most pressing.

Because _Maker forbid_ Anders be allowed to come ever again.

Hawke just hummed in a dark, growling affirmation. He had one of Anders’ wrists gripped tight in one hand, the other reaching out to cup the sharp line of his jaw as he kissed, bit, sucked down toward the bend of Anders’ elbow. Each drag of his teeth, each swirl of his tongue reverberated through him like the tolling of a bell. Each sobbing breath stolen from Anders’ parted lips was another moment of creeping awareness of Justice slowly taking over.

“Wait,” Anders gasped, then _jolted_ , writhing as he rode the fuckfuckfuckgood sting of Hawke’s teeth raking the sensitive inner bend of his elbow. “ _Wait!_ Hawke, I, _fuck_. Hawke.”

Hawke looked up, brilliant blue eyes glowering. His lip was curled back in a snarl, and that should have frightened him—a sensible man would have immediately wilted at the barely restrained fury Anders saw there.

But. It. Just. Made. Him. _Harder._

“ _What?_ ” Hawke growled. Anders shuddered in response. “I am waiting; what is it?”

“Justice.” It was almost impossible to talk. Anders drew in a reedy breath and tried again. “I haven’t—Andraste’s tits, Garrett, I can’t even think when you’re looking at me like that.”

Hawke just smirked and let his hand slide down Anders’ jaw. He paused at the long line of his neck, calloused fingertips rasping over his skin, before sliding down down down to circle a nipple with just the nail. “Oh?”

Anders closed his eyes and gave up all lingering shreds of dignity, _panting_. Maker, Hawke had him _panting_ for it, his own fingernails digging into the meat of his palms as he balled up his fists. His cock was an actual ache now, jerking every time Hawke slowly circled a nipple. “ _Please_ ,” he whined, straining so tight his muscles screamed in protest. “Please please _please_ let me come.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hawke said, pinching Anders’ nipple _hard_. 

Anders rode up at the touch, a lightning chain of sensation rocketing through him, _feeling_ Justice beginning to gather his strength in an affronted roar. _No please_ , he thought desperately. _Please let me have this with him; I love him._ “It’s not— _you_ ,” Anders managed, voice strained. “It’s—it’s Justice. Justice is keeping me from— He won’t let me—”

_Please oh please oh please._

Hawke went still.

He was so quiet all Anders could hear was the lap of the bathwater and the crackle of flames and his own labored breathing. He forced himself to open his eyes, swallowing back a moan at the flicker of reflected blue light on Hawke’s face. Faint fissures had broken out across his arms and chest, and though he was still in control of his mind, he was hyperaware of Justice just a breath away, trembling on the brink of taking control.

_Please, Justice_ , Anders thought, biting his lower lip hard. _It’s different with him. It’s going to be him until we die._

“Justice,” Hawke said slowly, gruffly, “is not allowing you to come?”

Anders let out a breath. “No,” he said. “He hasn’t since we, ah, joined.”

_That_ had Hawke’s brows arching. “That was a long time ago, Anders,” he said.

“ _I know._ ” Anders covered his eyes with his palm. “I really, really bloody well know. I’ve tried everything. Absolutely everything. That’s why I was in the Rose the first night we…” He trailed off when Hawke growled, shivering in response. Was there anything about this man that didn’t turn him on? “Nothing works, and I _want_ to, with you. I want to so much, but I can feel him pressing against my thoughts and I don’t think he’s going to allow it.”

All at once, his eyes stung and he had to squeeze them tight to keep pointless, frustrated tears from falling. He had been dreaming of Hawke, aching for him, _loving_ him for what felt like an age now. He was the first thing Anders thought of when he woke and the last thing on his mind when he drifted to sleep. He was a distraction from his work and his cause, but he was also the first person in a long, long time to make Anders feel like every single piece of him mattered, and he couldn’t lose that—not because of this. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, eyes squeezed shut. “Garrett. I’m so sorry.”

“Anders.”

His voice was so gruff, so _stern_ that Anders shivered. When Hawke closed his fingers around his wrist, he made a noise he would have been ashamed of if he’d been in his right mind…but then Hawke was slowly pulling his hand down, grip going tight, and it was all Anders could do to let him.

He felt a hot breath against his cheeks. Hawke brushed back a stray lock of hair with his other hand, _so gentle_ , tender, that Anders quaked. Then he gripped Anders’ chin. “Open your eyes,” he said, “and look at me.”

Anders didn’t want to obey. His eyes would be glowing blue, Justice right on the verge of taking over. He could feel the spirit’s disapproval washing through him in messy waves, filling him to bursting. But he could also feel the heat of Hawke’s breath, the gentle grip of his fingers, the _command_ echoing between them. He shifted, biting his lower lip at the shiver of need and fear (he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ let this be ruined) and slowly blinked open his eyes.

Hawke was _right there_ , close enough to kiss. Dark hair fell in messy tangles about his harsh face, and his brows were drawn into a serious—and seriously gorgeous—scowl. “Justice,” he said, gripping Anders’ chin tighter and dragging him near. Anders slipped in the cooling water, legs jerking, and fumbled for the edge of the tub to keep himself upright. His body thrummed with impossible energy, terror and hope and _need_ sending his heart tripping erratically.

“Garrett,” Anders began.

“ _Hush_. Justice,” he said again; his grip tightened. “You may be a part of Anders, but I know you can hear me.”

“Oh Maker,” he breathed.

Hawke’s eyes burned like lyrium—like the soul of the Fade itself. Anders could feel himself responding to the heat and, and, and _command_ in them; his stomach twisted and he felt a sudden, desperate urge to flee, or fling himself closer, or…

“I know you can hear me, and I want you to listen. I _command_ you to listen.”

He could feel Justice thrumming, though the tone of that response was so quixotic he couldn’t name it. Affront? Disgust? Interest? _Desire?_ Anders was so tangled up in his own feelings for Hawke that he couldn’t even begin to say.

“He’s listening,” Anders whispered, breath stuttering in his chest as Hawke stared him down. _We’re listening._

Hawke dragged his thumb along the rasp of Anders’ stubble, nail dragging against his skin. His expression was fierce and dark and _open_ , and Anders would have done anything he asked in that moment. He quaked with the awareness of that simple fact. It alone could have unmade him. “You will allow us this,” Hawke said quietly. “You will retreat and cede full control to Anders when he is alone with me, and you will not protest my place in his life or what we do together. _You will not_ ,” he added on a snarl, grip tightening when Anders bucked away involuntarily. 

He felt as if he’d swallowed the sun; Anders could feel Justice tumbling forward in response to that command even as Hawke held him pinned. He was trapped between the two iron wills, utterly at their mercy. “Garrett,” he gasped, straining to hold on.

“ _Justice_.” He actually bared his teeth, face abruptly so close each panting breath Anders dragged in was hot with the taste of him. “ _Listen_ to me. You will allow me to love Anders, to take him, to _fuck_ him, to unmake him,”

Anders bit his lip to swallow a whimper.

“and you will not protest. In return, I will help you bathe the streets in the blood of Templars if that’s your wish.”

And _that_ —

_Maker._

—that was enough to set is world on fire. He drew in a sharp breath, feeling Justice roaring out of him; blue-white light cast the room in deep striations, Hawke’s face in stark shadow as he stared him down. The pure burn of it was almost euphoric in a way Anders had never before experienced, making his lungs strain paper-thin, his skin fight to hold him together, his heart swell to near bursting. It was as if he’d swallowed one of his own fireballs, lit from the inside out, and there was nothing, _nothing_ he could do but ride the shuddering high of Justice’s sudden sharp _joy_.

_Yes. Yes. Yesyesyes._ “Yes,” Anders rasped, his voice only partly his own, and the flash of triumph on Hawke’s face was nearly enough to send him tumbling helplessly into his first orgasm in years.

Almost.

He heaved a breath and Justice was gone just as suddenly as he’d lunged forward. The strobing blue light flickered out and the room went dark. Anders collapsed back into splashing water with a gasp, tensed muscles slowly uncoiling, going languid. He felt weirdly good—incredible—as if that sudden surge of power had burned him clean. More than that, he felt nearly alone in his own head, Justice a distant presence at the far corner of his mind, easy to overlook.

Giving him this. Giving him _Hawke_.

“Maker,” Anders breathed; his voice came out rough, as if he had been screaming all night. Who knows—maybe he had been screaming. For a little while there, he hadn’t felt entirely in control of his own body. “That was just…” He rolled his head along the rim of the tub to look at Hawke, stunned. “How do you have that much power over us?”

Hawke sat forward, eyes scanning him thoughtfully. His huge hand, when he reached out to cup the side of Anders’ face, was heart-breakingly gentle. “It’s because I want you so badly,” he said, his own voice a low rasp, “that I won’t take no for an answer. Anders.”

“Yes?” He tipped into the hard warmth of Hawke, rubbing his cheek shamelessly along the rasp of callouses. What he wouldn’t give to feel those rough hands all over his skin. 

Hawke slid his hand down to grip his chin, tilting Anders’ face toward his. The heat of his breath fanned across Anders’ face, his parted lips, and it was all Anders could do to swallow back a thoroughly needy moan. Now that Justice had pulled away, arousal was tumbling its way back through his limbs, lit like flashpaper at the first hint of a spark. He twisted his hips in the cooling water, fighting the full-body shudder that worked its way through him—hot and sinuous and _aching_ with each quickening pulse of his blood. His cock firmed against his belly once more, thick and flush with want. _Need_.

Hawke didn’t even say anything; he didn’t _move_. He just sat there, big and terrifyingly magnetic, eyes burning Anders’ skin as they swept across the bare expanse of his chest. He could feel the flush following in Hawke’s wake, freckled skin going bright pink nearly all the way down to his belly button. His stomach tensed and he spread his knees wide in invitation, fighting the wild urge to thrust up—just from a single _look_.

“Oh,” Anders gasped, biting his lower lip. It was pure insanity how little it took for Hawke to gut him. His nipples were tight (tight _tight_ ) and his cock was straining painfully now. Each breath he sucked in came faster and faster, anticipation making his stomach twist into needful shapes.

And Hawke just watched him. Watched his erection jerk against the golden curls trailing down his tensed stomach, watched his legs press together and then strain apart. Watched him lose his _mind_ with the intensity of his need. He was so hard it was starting to hurt. He almost felt as if it would never stop hurting.

“Do you want me to beg?” he murmured, drawing Hawke’s gaze back to meet his. “Because Maker take me, I will _beg_.”

Hawke’s lips curled into a thoroughly wicked smile. “Oh?” he said, voice little more than a rumble. It coiled through Anders’ body near as strong as a caress; his cock jerked at the sound, precome glistening on the thick head. Dripping against his tense belly. Fuck, he needed to come. He _could_ come—Justice would let him. If only Hawke would touch him.

“Hawke,” Anders murmured.

But as intrigued as the other man had sounded at the idea, he clearly wasn’t ready for Anders to beg just yet. “Hush,” he commanded, gaze sliding down the exposed line of Anders’ body again. He’d never felt more naked before, sprawled out in a copper tub, pale skin gathering the firelight. “I’m not done looking at you.”

“But,” Anders tried to protest.

“ _Hush_.”

Anders bit the inside of his mouth. It was maddening—unfair; ha, _unjust_ —that Hawke was so close and yet not touching him. He felt worked up to a fever pitch with no way to vent steam, and if Hawke was seeing if he could make Anders come just by _watching_ him, then…

Then…

Well, then he was doing a good job, but _Maker_ take him, it was torture. Anders swallowed back a muffled noise and dropped one hand into the water. He let his fingertips glide over the tight line of his stomach, down the ridge of a hipbone, across his thigh. He could feel the muscle jumping beneath his skin, couldn’t help but hiss at the way his cock jerked, and he wanted—

Hawke suddenly grabbed Anders’ wrist and slammed it up and back, knuckles clanging _loud_ against the tub. Anders sucked in a breath, a firestorm raging in his blood as he stared up into burning blue eyes…then lightly tugged, testing Hawke’s grip.

It _tightened_ , trapping him.

“Oh,” Anders moaned, eyes going wide, then fluttering closed. He reached for Hawke’s tangle of dark hair with the other hand, only to have _it_ pinned against the opposite rim of the tub, pressed against cold metal just shy of too hard. “Oh, oh, _Andraste’s tits_ , yes.”

“I told you,” Hawke murmured; there was a growl threading through each word, making Anders fight against a full-body writhe, “that I was not done _looking_.”

“You’re driving me mad.” His voice was higher pitched than usual, nearly a keen, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was pinned, helpless, Hawke’s big body hovering over him, the full weight of him keeping his wrists pressed hard against the rim of the tub. Anders tipped his head back, long strands of hair trailing into the water, and moaned. His heels dug into the bottom of the tub as he fought the impulse to try to arch up like a cat; to rut against the hard body hovering so close—yet so far—from his own. “Garrett, _please_.”

Hawke’s grip just tightened. There’d be a bruise tomorrow shaped like big, rough fingers, and Maker, but he wanted it. He wanted to marked all over by him—to be black and blue and flushed with sated triumph. He wanted people to look at him and know just how thoroughly the other man had claimed him.

_I am yours_ , he thought, lips parting on a panting breath. _I will always be yours._

Hawke shifted his grip, dragging Anders’ trapped hands up the cool metal until they met over his head. There was a moment when his hold loosened and Anders could have pulled away, but he just flickered open his eyes and watched Hawke with a heady dazed acceptance, remaining still as Hawke slid one hand down to cup his jaw, the other massive fist circling both wrists easily. When brilliant blue eyes met his, Anders flushed with pleasure. “Maker, look at you,” Hawke said, fingernails rasping up and down his stubbled jaw. “Look at how _eager_ you are for me. You’d do anything to get off right now, wouldn’t you? You’d let me do anything.”

_Yes_. Anders wet his lips and nodded; his heart was pounding so fast, so hard he thought it might come bursting out of the fragile cage of his chest. All of him was one searing _ache_.

“You’d let me do this.” That big hand dropped from his jaw to trace the delicate line of his throat. Anders lifted his chin in welcome, eyes locked with Hawke’s as the big man closed his fingers around his neck. The sudden stutter of his breath cutting short _should_ have frightened him, but all it did was send sharp jolts of white-hot pleasure through his body. His hips arched and his legs thrashed, eyes going _wide_. Anders parted his lips and fought to drag in a breath, shocked alive at the sensation of being pinned, controlled, _denied_ such a basic need.

It didn’t last long, but it felt like an age, his whole lanky form sparking in response. Then Hawke’s grip loosened and he brushed his thumb tenderly along Anders’ throat, down to the delicate wings of his collarbone, to the tight pucker of his nipples.

“If I ordered you to come right now,” Hawke said, pinching one between thumb and forefinger, “would you?”

He could feel his body responding eagerly, and Anders jerked his head in a nod. 

“Words, Anders,” Hawke said, tightening his grip on Anders’ wrists. He scratched his nails across his chest to catch his other nipple, rolling it almost delicately between big fingers.

Anders sobbed in a breath at the sudden blaze of heat, water splashing up against the edge of the tub. It felt as if all of him was connected, hypersensitive: his straining cock, his balls, his nipples, his wrists, every bit of shuddering skin… It didn’t matter where Hawke touched him; Hawke didn’t have to touch him at all. He was full to bursting, riding each soft growl or implied threat like he was teetering on the edge of a blade.

Close. So, so close.

Hawke plucked at his nipple _hard_ and Anders jolted up, entire body shaking as if he’d been hit with a lightning chain. “ _Yes!_ ” he gasped, riding the fuckfuckyesnow surge of pleasure. His cock jerked hard against his belly, painting a smear of precome that was only just lapped away by the bathwater, and he could feel the promise of orgasm bearing down on him like a swinging fist.

Hawke just chuckled and plucked at his other nipple, just as ruthless, just as wonderful. “Good. And if I ordered you not to?”

Anders keened, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He was so close it was a constant ache, churning deep in his gut. It had been _so long_ ; now that he knew Justice would permit it, it was all he could do to hold on. And yet… _Yet_ …

“Yes,” Anders rasped, opening his eyes to stare up at Garrett Hawke. The intense blue—lyrium-bright—was a shock of pleasure, of ownership, of love. Maker, but he loved this terrible, difficult man. He would do anything for him.

“Yes?” Hawke prompted, leaning closer. His breath was hot against Anders’ cheeks, his lips. Anders watched as they dilated further, blue swallowed up by endless black. His big warrior’s body was tense, muscles straining as if he had to fight to hold himself back, too—as if he wanted Anders just as much as Anders wanted him.

Sprawled in the cooling water, naked and vulnerable, arms pinned over his head, so hard it was a constant _ache_ …Anders found it in himself to relax back into Hawke’s iron control, giving himself over to the certainty blooming deep inside his chest.

“Yes,” Anders said, and meant it with everything he was.

Hawke leaned in to press their foreheads together, breath hot against Anders’ parted lips. “Good,” he growled. His grip on Anders’ wrists tightened almost painfully even as his other hand slid down down down, blunt nails raking careful red furrows across his stomach. “Come for me.”

And that one simple order—

— _Maker_ —

—shattered through Anders in a sudden, devastating wave. He gasped, hips jerking up, and came hard, brutal, his entire body closing like a fist. Anders stared up into Hawke’s eyes as his body wracked with fine tremors, experiencing the breathless sense of falling as if it were his very first time. As if he were once again that angry, naïve boy in the Circle, full of more passion than sense, raging against the world…gentling only beneath the sure hands of this incredible, inescapable man.

He ached. Andraste’s tits, he ached with it, orgasm a scourge washing him clean. Hollowing him out. Limbs shuddering, breath coming in hitching gasps, eyes never once leaving Hawke’s.

Hawke slowly loosened his grip on Anders’ wrists and trailed his fingers down shuddering muscles. His lips curved into a slow, almost sweet smile. Those too-bright eyes were so achingly _warm_. “Yes,” Hawke murmured, thumb gliding over Anders’ bottom lip as Anders gasped, open-mouthed, struggling to find his feet again after his world had been rocked. “Yes, _good_. Fuck, you’re so good.”

_I love you_ , Anders thought, expression breaking into a sudden, sunny grin. _Maker take me, I love you more than I love anything_. “You haven’t,” he began, reaching for Hawke and tangling his fingers in long dark hair. His body was beginning to unwind, limbs going heavy and languid. He felt, for once, perfectly at peace with the world.

But Hawke leaned in and cut his words off with a kiss, teeth skimming Anders’ lower lip before ending the kiss with a sharp, perfect bite. “Not yet,” he agreed. Then he pulled back, standing—towering over the tub. The firelight was at his back, casting him in shadow, and he looked utterly barbaric as he leaned down and lifted Anders into his arms (water sluicing to the floor, arms flailing before wrapping around his broad shoulders, shirt cleaving to rippling muscles as it went damp and clingy as Anders himself) before turning and stalking toward the far stairs.

“What,” Anders started, looking around. The estate was completely empty save for the copper tub and fire; tiles were cracked and still stained with blood, and all around him, all he could see was proof of its inhospitality. “Where are we going?”

“Our bedroom.” Hawke subtly emphasized _our_ , one dark brow rising. “Where our bed should be waiting. I have plans.”

He shivered, hard. “ _Oh_.”

“Plans that involve making you come again and _again_ , until you’re begging me to stop.”

“ _Oh_ , oh, ah. Unlikely.”

Hawke just grinned and suddenly hoisted Anders higher as he started to take the steps two at a time, eyes dilated dark with promise, voice a low growl. “We’ll see,” Hawke said—and ascended to their bedroom.

And Anders? Well. Anders knew better than to argue with _that_.


	14. Chapter 14

Hawke held him as if he were something precious. As if he mattered. Strangely enough, for perhaps the first time in his life…Anders _felt_ like that might be true.

“How long have you been planning this?” he murmured, tangling his fingers in Hawke’s long, dark hair. Loose about his shoulders, it was untamed and a little wild—much like the man himself. Strands coiled about Anders’ hands, and he fought the impulse to tug until Hawke’s throat was exposed. He wanted to press his lips to that throat. He wanted to score it with his teeth, trace the pink marks with his tongue, suck bruises so everyone who saw Hawke knew he belonged to Anders.

Maker, he wanted to mark him in every way he could, and be marked in return—bruises blooming across the too-pale canvas of his skin. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted _so much_.

But…considering there was no telling what the other man would do if he interrupted Hawke’s own plans, Anders bit the inside of his mouth and waited for the right time to push. (He had a creeping feeling that the result of any kind of…mutiny…in the bedroom would be terrifying and thrilling and _absolutely necessary_ , holy shit.)

“You’re plotting something,” Hawke rumbled, lips quirking into a crooked smile. He reached the top of the steps and headed down the hall, carrying Anders as if he weighed nothing. “Am I going to have to punish you so soon?”

He shivered. “Probably,” Anders said. He leaned in to press their lips together, shuddering harder when Hawke shifted—still kissing him—and _kicked open the door_. “Fuck,” he added, pulling back at the _bang_. The door slammed against the far wall, rebounding even as Hawke stepped through. “Seriously, Hawke, what have doors ever done to you?”

“When they stand between me and getting you in our bed?” Hawke said, kicking it closed behind them. “ _Everything_.”

His toes actually curled at that, because he had clearly long ago lost his mind. How was it that this man’s barely veiled violence was so _compelling_? He’d never much cared for brutish Templars before, but each curl of Hawke’s lip, each growl, each show of strength rocketed through him like nothing else ever had. He was already hard again, even though he’d just come; he wanted to come again with Hawke buried deep inside him.

“Anders,” Hawke said, pausing at the foot of the bed. The room was still empty, save for the huge four-poster monstrosity—piled with blankets that looked softer than anything Anders had seen in, Maker, years, and swathed with heavy cloth the color of old blood. The thing must have taken a dozen men to haul upstairs and assemble, and he was being lowered down into it with infinite care. Like he was something delicate and precious. (And when was that going to stop making his heart lurch in his chest?)

“This is ours,” Anders interrupted before Hawke could say anything more. He moved up onto his elbows, scooting back until he hit the soft wall of pillows. His damp skin and dripping hair was leaving a darker stain against the bedpane, but he couldn’t bring himself to care—not when Hawke was moving to the foot of the bed, eyes locked hungrily on him. “This bed. It’s yours and mine. Isn’t it?”

Hawke didn’t respond. Instead, he began to strip with barely leashed violence—jerking the shirt over his head, muscles rippling in response. He balled it up and tossed it aside before reaching to wrench open the clasp of his leathers, revealing a trail of dark hair wending its way down down down the rippled valley of his abs.

Anders bit his lower lip, instinctively spreading his thighs. He reached down, one hand curling almost leisurely around his cock and giving it a tentative stroke, his eyes bouncing restlessly over… Over _all_ of Hawke, massive and gorgeous in the flickering firelight.

“You look like one of the pirate reavers in those books Isabela keeps trying to pawn off on me,” he murmured. His voice sounded suspiciously tight—husky—and he squeezed his fingers around the base of his cock, feeling himself rapidly firming in response to, to, knickerweasles, to Hawke just _standing there_. He was so far gone that just the feeling of Hawke’s eyes on him was enough to set him to purring. “All you need is a gold earring and an eyepatch.”

Hawke smirked, dropping his thumbs into the opened waist of his leathers. Anders’ breath caught in his throat, and he rose up onto one elbow to watch— _fixated_ on the sight. “Would you like that?” Hawke asked.

“Would I— What?” He was so dazed, he’d already lost track of the conversation. Anders forced himself to drag his gaze away from the tempting trail of dark hair, the wicked promise of more, and met Hawke’s eyes. “Uh, specify. There are a lot of things I’d like right now.”

He snorted and pushed the leathers down another inch. Another. They were hanging dangerously low now, spread wide at the placket to reveal the dip of Hawke’s hipbones, the delicious cut of his muscles. Anders’ hips jerked embarrassingly hard, and he flushed against Hawke’s widening, _wicked_ grin, his fingers tightening around the base of his own erection. It didn’t seem fair that he was so needy for Hawke already; he’d _just come_. Andraste’s tits, shouldn’t he be old enough to control himself?

 _No_ , a quiet part of him answered, thrilling at the certainty. _Not with this man. Not ever again._

“An earring and an eye patch,” Hawke said, pausing to rasp his thumbs along the leather. _Teasing_ , damn him. “Would you like a reaver in your bed?”

He wet his lips, cockhead already slick. Fuck, okay, yeah: he liked that idea. “Ah, well, is this…are you suggesting you’re after my booty?” Anders tried to joke, but it was a weak thing, betrayed by the way his voice trembled.

“Anders,” Hawke said. “I think you know I’m after far more than that.”

“Yes,” Anders began, but the rest was lost as Hawke _finally_ took mercy on him, pushing those damned leathers down his thighs. His cock sprung free, darkly flushed and _thick_. So thick that Anders actually whimpered at the sight of it, his stomach twisting in needy knots. Fuck, but he wanted that inside of him. He wanted Hawke grabbing his wrists and pinning them over his head as he drove deep into the welcoming clench of Ander’s body, setting a punishing pace that shattered through his body like breaking glass.

And if Hawke’s smirk was anything to go by, he knew very well what Anders wanted and exactly _how much_ he wanted it.

“Garrett,” Anders said, eyes narrowing. “I swear to Andraste herself, you can tease and torment me as much as you want any other night—and Maker knows I’ll look forward to it—but tonight…”

Tonight, he was too needy. He was too desperate. It had been _so long_. Longer still since he’d looked up into someone’s eyes and felt _love_ burning hot and unmistakable in his breast. He’d come trembling apart if he didn’t have Hawke’s hands on him, Hawke’s mouth on him, Hawke buried deep inside him and driving him higher and higher and higher. He’d go mad. Madder.

Hawke didn’t move.

“ _Garrett_.”

“Hush,” Hawke said, moving to kneel at the end of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his bulk, making Anders’ hips shift. They shifted again, restless and unabashedly wanton, when Hawke reached out to rest calloused hands on Anders’ bony knees. “I’m admiring the view.”

Anders bit his lower lip and let his thighs fall open as wide as they would go—the creak of pain was a delicious burn, joints protesting even as the rest of his body lit up with a flush of heat at, _fuck_ , Hawke’s eyes. The way they locked onto his trembling thighs, his straining muscle, the thick length of his cock resting flush against Anders’ quivering belly. He drew in a breath, another, hyperaware of how harsh they sounded as he deliberately spread himself out beneath Hawke’s regard, letting him look his fill. “Do you like what you see, then?” Anders managed, though his voice was so husky it was a wonder Hawke understood him.

But Hawke understood, all right. He began to grin—wicked and sharp—big hands slowly slowly slowly spanning down Anders’ straining flesh. He pressed his thumbs in, tight against the quaking line of muscle until he reached the join of hip and thigh.

Anders canted his hips forward, absolutely shameless. He wet his lips at Hawke’s low growl. “Well?” he murmured. His own long fingers tangled into the dark mass of Hawke’s hair, pulling until it fell over them in inky black waves. It was almost unbearably intimate, being spread so wide, their faces so close, Hawke arched over him like a stone roof. The ceiling to his world; everything he would ever want or need. The long, coiling ends of his hair tickled Anders’ cheeks, and his shoulders were wide enough to block out, fuck, everything.

No, no, _he_ was everything. He was everything, and Anders needed him more than he needed to breathe. He needed to be laid to waste, claimed, consumed. He needed to find a way to give himself to this man so irrevocably that not even the Calling could take him away.

“Garrett,” Anders began, tugging at that gorgeously long hair, but Hawke reached up to catch his wrist—then turned his face, lyrium-bright eyes still locked with Anders’, and brushed his lips across the delicate tracery of veins.

“Mine,” he said, more of a growl than a word. “You are _mine_.” Then he _bit_ , teeth sinking into pale skin just hard enough for Anders to really feel it, though nowhere near to breaking the skin. Anders bucked up with a strangled gasp, cock jerking hard in response—but before he could surge up into a heedless kiss, Hawke caught him by the throat and bore him back down hard, pressing him amongst a cloud of pillows with a wicked, smirking smile. “And I am not done admiring you,” he said.

Anders sucked in a serrated breath, straining up against the tight hold, daring him to grip _tighter_. There was something darkly beautiful about the way Hawke held him down for his appreciative gaze—something that set his mind whirling and his body shooting sparks as, as, as—

 _“FUCK!”_ he rasped, suddenly spasming up when Hawke leaned in and caught his left nipple between his teeth. It was a shock to his system—pleasure swinging like a _fist_ —and his whole body jerked in response, heels slipping desperately against the mattress.

Hawke paused, tongue pressed against the very tip, teeth pulling him taut. He looked up through his lashes, brows raising; all Anders could do was pant raggedly, flush heating his skin from chest to collar to cheeks.

That?

That had never happened before.

Bloody void, he couldn’t even remember if a lover had ever even bothered with his nipples before now. Most of his assignations had been about getting off as quickly as possible; no one had really _touched_ him, explored him, made it their mission to drive him absolutely barking mad. Trust Garrett Hawke to find a new way of making him unravel at the seams.

 _Oh_ , Anders thought, twisting against Hawke’s light grip on his throat. He bit his lip, waiting, waiting…and was rewarded when Hawke swirled his tongue about the tight peak before swallowing around his breast in a liquid hot glide. _Oh! Oh! Oh!_

He keened like an animal—legs thrashing and hips bucking up. His cock dragged across the wiry crinkle of Hawke’s belly hair, the dark treasure trail rasping against his length. He was leaving a trail of his own, Anders knew, precome slick between them, and Maker, Maker, oh fucking _Maker_ it felt good. It felt so, so, just: “Too much,” he gasped, meaning: _more_. _Give me more_.

Hawke understood. Hawke always understood, always was able to read the words beneath his words. He raked his teeth along Anders’ left breast, almost cruel, before kissing away the sting with the softest, sweetest press of his lips. _That_ was followed by another swirl of his wicked tongue, and then his teeth were back again, tugging at the sensitized skin, making him gasp and shout and bend himself in a graceless bow, desperate to— Needing to—Wanting—

He, he just, grargh. He didn’t know what he wanted; he just _wanted_.

“That’s it,” Hawke murmured, trailing kisses down Anders’ quivering belly to dip his tongue against the divot of his belly button. Anders was heaving breaths, so hard it was beginning to hurt. One nipple felt sore—almost raw—and the other seemed to ache with wanting. Or was he just imagining it? “That’s a good boy.”

“Don’t even,” Anders began, barely able to speak. He sucked in a ragged breath and dug his fingers back into Hawke’s long, dark hair, tugging sharply at the root. Hawke just smirked against his skin and kissed, licked, bit his way down. “Don’t even tease me now, Garrett Hawke. Don’t you dare.”

He gave a muffled shout at the drag of Hawke’s teeth across the sharp wing of his hipbone. His cock—flushed red and hot, heavy against the bellows of his belly—throbbed in time with his heaving breaths.

Hawke glanced up through his lashes, eyes bright and wicked. He snapped his teeth, hand leaving Anders’ throat to scrape delicious pink lines across his chest. “I think you will find, love” he said, tongue sliding down to the join of Anders’ hip and thigh, so close to his cock that it was an agony. “That there are a good many things I dare. _Don’t_ ,” he added, suddenly grabbing Anders wrist when he reached for his own chest. “Don’t touch yourself. That’s for _me_ to do. This…” He rose up onto his knees again, towering over Anders; his own rock-hard cock thrust proudly from his body, huge and flushed a dusky-rose, already slick at the head. It bobbed enticingly when he leaned in to press one palm over Anders’ heart. “This is all _mine_.”

Anders actually whimpered at that, head falling back to expose the line of his throat.

“Do you understand?”

Maker, he was hard. It was a kind of madness, a fire in his blood—his hips moving in restless little ruts against the bedpane, his nipples sore, his cock thick against his belly, his thighs—

Hawke slapped his flank _hard_ , the sting of flesh rippling through him in a shockwave. Anders jolted up with a gasp, one hand still caught in Hawke’s iron grip, the other grabbing for his shoulder for some kind of purchase. He couldn’t say what it was about that blow—jarring, yet not so hard that its sting was actual _pain_ —that set him tumbling ass over teakettle, but bloody void it had, it _had_. “Garrett,” he keened, turning his face for a messy kiss. All tongue and spit and _need_ , his hips lifting as he tried to push their bodies together in a long, helpless rut.

Hawke bit at Anders’ mouth, dropping his wrist to grab the curve of his ass, keeping his hips lifted high against him. The other— _Andraste take him_ —caught Anders’ right nipple between thumb and forefinger and twisted this side of too hard.

And Anders lost himself, utterly.

He could feel his mind unraveling under the onslaught of need, but he didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t care. It was all too much, and he needed _more_ so badly there was no controlling his response—messy and whimpering, _begging_ as he gracelessly tried to rut against Hawke’s big body. He licked deep into Hawke’s mouth to try to muffle his own cries, nails raking across broad shoulders.

“Please, please, please,” Anders panted, words broken off and lost against the determined swipe of Hawke’s tongue. When Hawke pressed forward, Anders went boneless against him, practically swooning at the demanding _plunder_ of his kiss. Maker, he had wanted a reaver in his bed? Hawke had taken that to heart, because he was taking everything all at once—sucking just shy of too rough on his tongue, thumbnail rasping across the too-sensitive peaks of his nipples, thigh dragging hard-and-tight against his cock, fingers of his free hand—

Anders twisted away from the kiss in a heaving _shout,_ spine arching at— Oh, oh, yes, Maker, _yes_ , the calloused fingertips sliding down the dip of his spine and across the tight clench of his body. He couldn’t even remember the last time anyone had touched him there, and he needed, _needed_ Hawke to be fucking him now; all at once, it was _everything_ , and—

“Garrett, Garrett, Hawke,” he whimpered, twisting, _writhing_ , at the almost-delicate brush of those fingers. Anders reached back blindly, ignoring Hawke’s sudden fierce grin, and clamped his hand around Hawke’s wrist. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate…shivering hard as he called up the spell. _A handy thing_ , Karl had used to joke even as he slipped his elegant fingers so gently inside him. Too gently, really—as much as he’d loved Karl and enjoyed their assignations, they had never left him burned to a crisp.

Hawke…Hawke was anything but gentle, and Anders was done with waiting to be _claimed_.

“Please,” he said, letting go of Hawke’s wrist—grabbing his cock now, long fingers squeezing around the girth. Andraste save him, but Hawke was huge. As big as the rest of him, flushed an angry red and slick at the slit. Anders swiped his thumb across the soft cockhead, ignoring Hawke’s warning growl as he smeared the precome, then slid his hand down down down…calling up the spell as he went, making Hawke _wet_ and slippery and—

Anders yelped, grip reflexively tightening when Hawke pushed a slick, _massive_ , finger inside him. He pressed his face against the curve of Hawke’s neck, panting, whining, _shuddering._ For a moment, all Anders could feel was the sting of the intrusion—but then his body relaxed, _melted_ into submission, and he was nodding against Hawke’s skin. He slid his own hand up, needing to brace himself against that powerful chest as Hawke dragged him oh-so easily higher onto the cradle of his thighs (Hawke still kneeling on the bed, muscles bulging, beautiful) and slid deeper into his body. Anders could _feel_ the roughness of his callouses, could _feel_ the burning width of him; each minute intrusion stole a sobbing breath from him as he rocked eagerly down against it, wanting more more more. Always, always more.

“Yes, yes, please, oh, Garret, yes, just, fuck me, fuck me, please, just,” he babbled, panting hotly against the join of Hawke’s neck and shoulder. He mouthed and bit at the skin, hands moving restlessly across the hard muscles of his chest and arms. He was rutting against the lightly furred stomach, Anders realized with a very distant sort of embarrassment—hips stuttering against tight abs as if he could rub himself off like a cat.

And then Hawke pressed a second finger inside of him, and that distant awareness became a _very real_ possibility.

“ _Hawke!”_

“ _Hush_ ,” Hawke whispered against his hair—tender, _sweet_ , even as he pressed that second finger inside. He shifted on the bed at Anders’ desperate moan and wrapped his other arm around his waist, clamping his hips perfectly still. It was torture, absolute torture when his body was so, so very desperate to find completion, but Anders nodded against his skin and whispered his thanks.

He had never enjoyed being chained down before; he had fought it with everything he had. And yet there was a peculiar kind of freedom to Hawke being the one to pin him so completely. A free will that came from Hawke taking away his own body’s right to move, to seek, to take.

Fuck, he didn’t know—he could barely string two thoughts together before they dissolved into another wave of pleasure. All he knew was that he was all but pinned against Hawke’s huge body—hips locked still, arms trapped between their chests, body opening so easily as Hawke fucked two thick fingers deep inside him, driving him higher and higher and higher.

At the third finger, Anders sobbed a breath and bit at Hawke’s shoulder, hard enough to draw blood. He felt unhinged with desire, trembling so close to the edge that he was almost _afraid_ to move. Only Hawke was holding him together, and fuck, but he loved that. He loved _him_. This monster he willingly sacrificed himself to, this beast who was only gentle here, with him. The idea of that made something unspool low in his belly _just_ as Hawke curled his fingers and brushed his prostate.

Anders jerked up with a cry, head falling back and eyes squeezed shut, blue-white light exploding out like a shockwave. It wasn’t Justice emerging—thank the Maker, Justice was nowhere to be found—but the burst of mana left ice crystals across the bed, following the hills and valleys of the bedpane in beautiful, abstract shapes. The air was _cold_ around them, their breaths puffing white, and Anders licked his bottom lip as he melted back against Hawke again, slowly opening his eyes to meet his.

Hawke was very. Very. Still. _Staring_ at him with something a little like fear and a lot like hunger in those too-blue eyes. As Anders watched, Hawke turned his face to look around the room— _everything_ was coated in a thin sheen of ice, gleaming in the dim. It was beautiful and unnerving to know he could lose control like that, and Anders tensed, waiting to see if Hawke would push him aside.

He should have known better than to worry.

“Do you realize,” Hawke began slowly, voice thick, rough, rumbling deep in his chest like a growl, “how fucking much I love you?”

And then, before the shock of that could erupt in Anders’ wildly fluttering heart, he slid his fingers free and _shoved_ him back against the mattress, moving over him with the speed of a striking snake. Anders gasped—then _keened_ —wrists caught in one big hand and pressed against the pillows, legs pushed _wide_ by muscular thighs. Hawke caught his mouth in a long, plundering kiss, hips driving him down down down against the bed. Ice crystals stung his skin, made everything that much more _intense_ as Hawke’s free hand caught the curve of his ass—fingers twisting and spreading him wide.

 _Yes yes oh Maker yes_! He bucked hard, wanting Hawke so badly he thought his heart might explode. He bit into the kiss, struggling against Hawke’s iron grip just to make him hold on harder, tighter, a little _meaner_. _Yes_. His thighs ached they were spread so wide and he jerked once at the scalding heat of Hawke’s cockhead pressed against his slick entrance before going suddenly, utterly, perfectly still.

 _Oh_.

 _Yes_.

Anders sucked in a breath—sucked in Hawke’s breath—trembling against him as the man he loved more than reason itself slowly pushed into the eager clench of his body. It was transformative, how _gentle_ Hawke could be even as he held Anders pinned to the mattress. His kiss was almost sweet, tender, full of that love overflowing between them, clear in the way his thumb brushed over his trapped wrists, the way his tongue teased at the corners of his mouth, the way his big body tensed with immense, controlled power as he pushed slowly but surely into the welcome glide of Anders’ body.

And then, _then_ , with all the quicksilver brutality inside him, Hawke pulled back—and _slammed_ into him.

Anders lost his breath in a muffled scream, already rutting up to meet the next thrust, the next. Their rutting went from impossibly slow, _gentle_ , to savage between one breath and the next, and oh oh Maker, yes, yes, _yes_. He gave himself over to it, hoping he wore Hawke’s bruises tomorrow, hoping Hawke wore bruises of his own, _loving_ the near-savage gleam in his lover’s eyes as he grabbed Anders’ legs and hoisted them over powerful shoulders.

Anders was bent in half, gasping out curses and endearments as Hawke pounded into him with a wildness that couldn’t be anything other than blisteringly hot. His own cock was pressed tight against his belly, leaking pools of precome over his quivering skin, and he wanted to stroke himself so badly it was a madness—but his arms were still held over his head, his wrists were trapped, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t reach down, he couldn’t, he, oh, oh _fuck_ , oh.

“Yes,” Hawke growled, fucking Anders hard and fast and _desperate_. There was something so beautifully wild about it; he could feel that thick cock pulsing inside his body, could feel his own body clenching tighter and tighter as he was shoved toward orgasm. It was all happening so fast; Anders wanted to grab hold of time with both hands and jerk it to a crawl, wanted to be folded up beneath Hawke and spread wide and _taken_ for hours, but this, this, oh fuck this, this was going to be quick and brutal; this was going to be glorious.

“Hawke,” Anders keened, head thrashing back and forth. He’d never come without a hand on him before, but he was so close, so close he could feel the heat building in his stomach. His toes curled and his breath caught with each slam of Hawke’s hips. Sweat and melted ice beaded against his skin—steaming—as he stared up into his lover’s lyrium-bright eyes. “Yours,” Anders managed, voice breaking on the word. He’d never said anything more true in his life. “I’m—yours, all—yours, I— _Hawke_.”

His teeth flashed in a grin-turned-snarl as Hawke reached down with his free hand and fisted Anders’ cock almost too hard. “ _Mine_ ,” he growled into a biting kiss, blood hot between their slippery lips, tongues. And: “ _Love you so fucking much_.”

Anders came so violently— _howling_ his release—that he blacked out at the peak, the world going from flashing blue-white to black from one breath to the next.

He went still.

**

Anders came to some indeterminate amount of time later in slow degrees, languidly swimming back to himself with a contented purr. He was stretched out on something warm and hard; it moved beneath him with steady breaths, dark chest hair rasping over his still-quivering skin.

A big hand stroked his hair, then down his shoulder blades to the dip of his spine. The air smelled like sweat and sex, and Anders’ toes curled in response.

“There we are,” Garrett Hawke murmured. Laying sprawled over his chest like a sunning cat, Anders could feel the rumble of his words echo through his entire lanky frame. “I’d wondered if I should fetch some smelling salts.”

“Mmmmmmm,” Anders replied; he wasn’t sure he was capable of more. He’d never felt so fucked-out, so perfectly content, in his life.

Hawke’s hand stilled and he chuckled. The sound made Anders smile in return. It was amazing the way this warrior could make him feel. “Get some rest, little sparrow,” Hawke murmured, nosing at the hair falling across Anders’ cheek. “Tomorrow we have work to do. Moving our things into our new home,” he added by way of explanation.

Anders looked up, heart giving a ridiculous little lurch.

“And seeing about soundproofing this room,” Hawke added, taking a strand of blond hair between his fingers. He’d caught up the end of his own dark hair, too, and when he rubbed thumb and index finger together, he tangled the strands until they blended, perfectly imperfect. “I’d rather not scar my sister for life right after stealing her back from the Wardens. And—”

Before he could say more, Anders surged forward to kiss him. It was long and slow and _intense_ , intimate in a way that swept through him. It was only now beginning to sink in that this— _this_ —was going to be his life now. Hawke in his arms, his calloused hands shaping Anders’ world, his lips soft and giving as he kissed back with everything he was. The jagged pieces of each of them somehow slotting together despite all the odds.

Maker, yes: perfectly imperfect.

Their tongues swirled wet and hot together until Anders felt a tightening in his lower belly as his body began to respond. _Again_. Holy shit, he wasn’t sure he could take more of this, and yet he wanted to climb up onto Hawke’s hips and slide his cock back into the still-slick clench of his body—wanted to brace his hands on that powerful chest and watch his face as he rode him again, and again, and again.

He broke the kiss with a shuddery breath, eyes meeting Hawke’s. From the gleam in them, it was clear Hawke was already reading the not-so-subtle clues of his body. “Again?” Hawke asked, one brow arching.

Anders gave a breathless laugh. “Anything for the man I love,” he promised—and thrilled at the way Hawke rolled him onto his back in one powerful move, weight crushing him back into the mattress…mouth somehow all at once demanding and frightening and perfect and _sweet_.

He smiled up into the kiss—and gave himself over to this beast of a man who had claimed him. _Thank Andraste_ , Anders thought, twining his arms around Hawke’s neck. He couldn’t imagine ever wanting it any other way.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end for these two. Keep your eyes peeled for follow-up fics "Pretty When You Cry" and "The Man Who Sold the World".


End file.
